A Sorrow of Magpies
by Luc Court
Summary: Spoilers for KH1, CoM, KH2. Every Organization has to start somewhere. A look at the Nobodies and how they learn the rules of an existence they never expected.
1. Chapter 1

**A Sorrow of Magpies  
**_Spoilers. Disclaimer: Based purely off KH1, CoM, and KH2. At this time, the manga and bonus material where the Organization may get more development have not been made available locally._

* * *

The first and last thing that Even remembered was darkness.

The labs spat smoke as he pushed through the doors, swallowing him whole in a gout of black fog. For an instant, he could not breathe. Heat rose up to slap across his face in a wave. It withered his lungs; he gasped like a fish, open-mouthed, and just as disoriented as if he'd been plucked from a cold river. The rooms pulsed with color. They were luminous, they were pitch-black, they were both at once - Even could not find his bearings as light pitched a feverish battle against darkness, changing noon to midnight in the tight confines of the labs.

Another body stumbled against him and he reacted on instinct, flinching away before he could see its face. Then it groped for him again, and he recognized Ienzo underneath a mask of soot that had been streaked from ear to ear.

"He's back," the younger man was coughing, clinging to his arm for a split-second before being ripped away. Further in, Even could hear the sounds of Braig howling for more ammunition, that he couldn't see clearly, that his guns were jamming. Elaeus was bellowing for them to run, his giant's voice gone hoarse from flame.

Between waves of smoke, Even could see the walls burning.

When Even turned back, fumbling blindly for the door, his hands plunged into warm, black tar. He tore free with a curse; the gooey material stuck to his fingers, dripping off his wrists like long strings of taffy. Flecks of light began to glimmer in the muck, two by two, until heads began to bulge out of the darkness, birthing themselves from fat blisters that swelled in the syrup clinging to Even's palms.

In his panic, he spat the first words he could find. Ice spells burst snow across the air. Crystal shields sparkled like razor-glass. The summoned cold melted almost instantly under the withering heat, but not before shattering the tar off his hands and freeing him of the shadows.

He did not waste any time trying again. That exit was blocked to them now; there were no windows this deep underground, no emergency portals that could lead him outside. At best, he could only hope to flee further into the labs, into the machinery of the great computer, and hide there until the danger passed.

Electricity licked across the room, a blue wave that danced over racks of lab supplies but left them untouched - whose spell, Even did not know. His hip crashed into a samples cart. Claws fastened on his jacket; he staggered beneath the additional weight, lashing out with a palm until the coat ripped and let him stumble free.

The thick canvas that had protected him from numerous chemical spills and late-night dinners was scant armor against the beings which were rampaging through the labs. None of the mechanical safeguards were responding either. Backup routines had been installed into the computers of the Bastion, just in case the experiments went wild, but Even saw no evidence of any defense procedures being activated.

Ienzo had completely vanished. Deeper in the room rang the crash of Dilan's lances, the smell of crisp ozone fluttering through the smoke like a breath of lightning. Elaeus's bulk was briefly visible through an equipment rack, his fists battering against a monstrously large hound whose mouth was a zig-zag line of teeth. Instead of eyes, hollow pits of gold were sunk above its muzzle.

_A Heartless_, Even thought wildly, but none of Elaeus's commands seemed to be working, and then the two figures were swallowed by another wave of fire.

Three of Dilan's lances were impaled in a table as he stumbled past, looking helplessly for the doors to the computer rooms. One had been struck so hard that it had split down the middle, its metal cross guards snapped clean off. Over the shouts came a symphony of rapid snicks, a _click click click _that Even recognized with a hiccup of dread: Braig's guns were empty.

One of them began to scream.

Then hands were pulling him down, burying his strength beneath their own. Dozens of hot, hungry mouths fastened onto his skin. He tried to struggle free, but the shadows had transformed into unimaginably strong leeches, flexing and wriggling against his torso. They dragged him to one knee; he caught himself on his hands, bowed in an arch of flesh that did not dare to break.

For one brilliant second, it seemed as if he would be able to fight clear. Then one of his elbows wavered; weakness collapsed him like a house of cards, pitching him against the tiles of the floor. One shoulder smashed into the ground. Even had barely enough time to realize that he would not be able to keep from cracking his skull open before he was caught in a pillow of black ooze, one that cradled his weight like a child before enveloping his body whole.

Darkness crawled into his mouth. He couldn't move. He couldn't breathe.

Even closed his eyes.

It was the ache that woke him. Slow blossoms of pain were breeding in his joints, crawling up his arms, down his legs. Unconsciousness slid grudgingly away from his limbs, like the ocean spitting out a lost sailor. A heavy weight had been laid across his chest. When he took a breath, it came back flush with cinnamon.

Only one person reeked like that. Only one person believed the nattering herb-women from the countryside with their folk-tales of how certain spices helped with digestion; one person who was obsessed over how people _smelled_.

Even blinked, and discovered he was blind.

Then a red star glimmered, far in the distance. Turning his neck, Even felt dozens of silken threads tickle his face. The ground was cold. His lab coat did not insulate him against the cobbles. The only warmth came from the man lying on top of him - a mixed blessing, since it also prevented Even from being able to move.

What he could see of Ienzo's features consisted of one cheek and a thin mouth, perfectly composed as a doll. The black veil across his vision turned out to be the other researcher's hair, scattered like a grey dandelion puff in silhouette. Judging from the slight rise and fall of Ienzo's chest, the younger man was still alive.

"Ienzo." The name brought no reaction. "You're heavy."

"I'm allowed to be heavy," the other researcher mumbled back in monotone, not bothering to open his eyes. "I'm dead."

Even pushed at him with a hand, feeling the slow grumble in his bones. "Then we are dead together, and you're still crushing the air out of me." Another shove. The flaccid muscles of the smaller man refused to move. "Get off. I can't see."

Ienzo groaned against his neck.

Feeling exhaustion threaten to drag him back into sleep, Even tried to squint past the other man's ear. There was no moon in the sky. What he had mistaken as a star was only a crimson glow, swaying like a drunken crescent before it vanished and was replaced by green. Even's brain watched dully as the colors cycled through yellow to red to green three times before he registered what he was looking at.

A stoplight.

He gave another push. This time, Ienzo relented, sliding off with an unhappy moan. Even ignored it as he forced his body to sit up; blood rushed out of his face at the motion, leaving his ears humming. There was a strange pain in his chest, like the hidden bruise of an old wound, but he could see no scars on his body. No clawmarks - not even lines scored on the skin where open cuts should have been, or faint scabs from healing.

"How long were we unconscious?" he wondered aloud.

The man beside him shrugged, levering himself upright and nearly falling over again in the process. "I don't know." The voice was tired. "I remember the labs. Something exploded near the synthesizer - that's what it sounded like, but when I went down there to look, I thought I saw Xehanort. Only twisted."

"What do you mean?"

"His expression was crazed." Ienzo frowned. Looking at him, Even couldn't shake the impression that there was something _wrong _about the set of the other man's shoulders, his bones, as if the fires had seared the flesh away and left only brittle casings behind. But it was Ienzo's sourness, Ienzo's grumbling, and Even let his mind fasten onto that familiarity. "His skin looked like he'd been through a furnace."

Memory of heat washed over Even's mind, and he suppressed the urge to shiver. "We all were being baked alive. What happened to your hair?"

Ienzo straightened, lifting fingers to his temples. The braids had been an old-standing pride; his hair had grown even longer than Even's, and Ienzo had been forced to tie it back to keep it out of the way during work. Several small plaits used to ring his face, leading to a single long tail in back. Now only ragged strands remained. Severed without order, they hung over his face in a fan of disheveled bangs, and made his features look even younger than usual.

"It must have burned off. After that fight, I'm lucky that's all that I lost." As the other man spoke, he grimaced, pressing a hand to his chest. The fabric of his lab coat had been shredded until it was barely fit to be called a rag. He sat quietly and let Even part the ruined material; blood crusted the white cotton of the shirt underneath, flaking away in chips of brown ash as Even touched it, but the flesh of Ienzo's stomach was smooth and unbroken.

"Your wound," the older researcher murmured. Streetlights flashed. "Is it already healed?"

"I have a better question - what happened to _you_?"

Even froze as Ienzo's hand touched his jaw. He turned his chin obediently towards the intersection lights, slitting his eyes against the flare of neon colors. A walk sign blinked on and off in a corner of his vision. "Is something the matter?" he forced himself to ask, perfectly still under the scrutiny of the Ienzo-who-wasn't.

The younger man's brow furrowed. "Your chin looks strange. Like you've lost half your weight in the wrong places. And the shade of your hair - it's funny in this light. I need to see you clearly under the sun."

Even cast a helpless look at the pitch-dark sky above them. "There's small chance of that. Let's get our bearings first."

The statement was easy enough, but as Even got to his feet, he realized just how lost they were. Not a single vehicle had passed through the intersection since their waking. No motors reverberated down the streets; these roads were empty of all evidence of traffic. The longer they sat in the middle of the road, the longer they waited for disaster - but every sign that Even could see was blank, lacking any names or directions to identify what was where.

The buildings seemed normal enough, homes and storefronts mixed together in unified rows, but the district looked like no part of Radiant Garden that Even had ever visited before. Even in its quieter towns, the Garden favored open windows and lanterns to show the way. This city was shuttered and dark. If there were people inside the buildings, not a single one had lit a candle to see by.

When Even touched one of the lampposts, curious, his fingers came back clean. No dust. No grime from motor exhaust, or simple daily living.

"You said you saw Xehanort." When Ienzo nodded confirmation, Even continued. "The attack must have been his device. Do you think this is revenge for what we did?"

"And what's that, precisely?"

A multitude of betrayals ran through Even's head, but he settled on the most obvious: "We convinced him he was Ansem."

Ienzo brushed that off with a disdainful snort. "He would have believed anything by the end. Looking for his memories so desperately that he was willing to accept whatever the Darkness offered - he would have believed _anything_." The younger man leaned his weight forward onto a knee, and then got to his feet unsteadily. His first step wobbled. "It wasn't our fault. We only nudged him a little."

"He might not have seen it like that."

"Believe me." Ienzo stopped trying to walk and closed his eyes, swaying faintly. "The nightmare I saw didn't care about blame. All it wanted was to feed."

They found Dilan hiding on a restaurant patio, perched on a metal-wire chair that had been slid back against the locked doors of the building. The stubble on his face had grown into shaggy, dark streaks on either side of his cheeks; strange, for the man who had once taken such pains to keep himself clean-shaven. Empty plates were scattered across the tables around him, forks and spoons lined up neatly for a dinner that would never come.

They would have overlooked him - a motionless, fixed blot of muscle wrapped inside the shadow from the doorway - but as they were about to walk past, he made a small cry.

It was a sound like nothing human: an animal's wordless call, bereft of language, stripped of thought. He fell silent again to stare ahead into some private misery, but Ienzo shook him by the shoulders, saying his name over and over again until Dilan blinked and seemed to recognize himself again.

"Xehanort," he gasped, grabbing Ienzo's wrists like a lifeline. "Xehanort, is he here?"

Ienzo frowned, and did not answer.

Elaeus and Braig had taken refuge together when they were found, collapsed into the mouth of an alleyway as a crude shelter. Elaeus was the more distinctive of the two, his lion's mane of hair singed down to ruddy tufts. He stood guard over the crumpled gunner with his fists loose at his sides, ready for any form of attack.

Even remembered a man bronzed by the sun, who would swing laughing children onto his shoulders so they could better see the clouds. Now Elaeus was a pale specter, solemn as he watched them approach. Braig looked no worse than any of them; there were no open wounds on him either, but he complained of weakness and collapsed when he tried to walk.

While Ienzo was examining Braig, Elaeus beckoned Even over to the alleyway. He gave no explanation as he led the way past plastic garbage bags, heading directly for a cluster of metal cans that had been nestled together at the far end of the cul-de-sac. When the taller man lifted the lid off the nearest trash bin, Even took an instinctive step back, wrinkling his nose against the stench he was sure would come.

But the air remained fresh.

Without pausing, Elaeus shoved his hand directly into the trash itself, heedless of any filth he might come in contact with.

Even took a step closer despite himself. "It's not garbage?"

"Look closer." The redhead sorted through a top layer of paper, sifting it aside as he tilted the bin in Even's direction. "Everything's clean. The pages are blank. There's nothing broken or filthy here. Most people throw out drink cups, old wiring, muddy clothes - food wrappers at the very least. But there's _nothing_," the man emphasized, prodding the metal can with his toe, "here to rot. There's not even dirt."

_No living beings_, Even concluded, seeing the same wary realization on Elaeus's face. _It looks like trash, but only on the surface. It's just a pretense. It's not real._

They did not share this knowledge with the others, rejoining them just in time for Braig to regain enough balance to stand. Elaeus slung one of the gunner's arms around his neck without complaint; the redhead had supported them all at one point in their lives, whenever they had become sick off cherryspring wine or had overslept for a test. It had been years since they were students, but some habits had not disappeared entirely.

As they walked, it began to rain.

It was a punishing downpour, one which overflowed the gutters into lakes. The researchers were forced to huddle together as they limped through the torrent, shoulder to shoulder against the elements. Awnings were few; doorways that could fit all five of them were even fewer, and they moved from shelter to shelter in hopscotch efforts. The wind was unpredictable, battering them from one direction before twisting suddenly around to snap at their heels.

Dilan took the lead, bracing one arm in front of his face as he served as a living windbreak for the rest of them. After him came Elaeus, tugging Braig along; then Even and Ienzo, both staggering under the fury of the storm.

_Grown men lost like city urchins_, Even observed sourly, and then had to brace himself when Ienzo lurched into his side with a mumbled apology.

"Not much further," Elaeus kept muttering to Braig, over and over like a litany. Those small encouragements were the group's only conversation until finally Dilan stopped with a bitter laugh.

"Not much further until _what_?" Ignoring the storm, the lancer looked back at the exhausted cluster of wet jackets and misery. Rain streamed down his face. The winds had snapped his hair into wild curls, pasting loops upon his cheeks; he did not bother to wipe them away. "The labs were destroyed. None of us even recognize where we are right now. For all we know, we're standing in the Bastion's underground right now, endlessly traveling in circles until we die."

"Everything was broken," Braig agreed, his voice more subdued than they had ever heard it before. He stirred, lifting his head from Elaeus's shoulder, one eye squinted shut against the fat raindrops which pelted his cheeks. "The experiment went wrong. Xehanort came for us."

Ienzo had crossed his arms across his chest, palms up against his neck as if doing so could save his body heat from being sacrificed to the rain. "We were trying to turn him into a Heartless," he commented sharply. "I don't think anything could have gone _right_."

"Calm down." Elaeus's boots made a wet squelch as he shifted Braig's weight, hefting the gunner more firmly by the waist. "We don't need you getting worked up, Ienzo."

"I _am_ calm," the younger man retorted, and then blinked, his mouth going slack into a round 'o' of surprise. A look of puzzlement traced across his face, between the lacing of water. "I... I'm fine. I'm not as upset about this as I seem. I'm sorry. It's cold."

Ienzo had always been the most easily excitable of them all; Even chalked the lack of energy up to exhaustion. Elaeus gave the smaller researcher a long, scrutinizing stare before apparently concluding the same. "Are we all sure it was Xehanort? There's no chance it was a simulation?"

"I had just finished practice with the knights in the main yard," Dilan interjected, slipping his hands into the tattered sleeves of his coat. The gesture did little to stop the man's shivering. "I wanted to visit the computers and see if there had been any quantity changes in the local concentration of Darkness. On the way, I met up with Braig. We were just walking through the reserve labs when _he _appeared."

"Xehanort was there," Braig confirmed. "He came out of the wall, and the Shadows followed."

Above them, the streetlights clicked from green to yellow.

"It could be," the gunner continued, wrinkling his nose against what looked to be a sneeze, "that we're dead, and trapped in some dream of Xehanort's. That would explain all this strangeness."

It was Even who broke the gloom, leaning against the slick stone of the nearest building for support. "Then I would question why his dream included Dilan. Keep moving. No amount of punishment is worth watching him mildew."

The jibe was tired, but familiar. It served its purpose, eliciting a scowl from the lancer's direction. Braig made a choked bark in lieu of a laugh, but it was enough, and they all began to walk again.

Having only blank street signs around them, they picked the widest roads to follow. Their guides were store canopies that served as temporary shelters. No matter where they searched, the rain harried them, driving them out of every alleyway and arch.

Even's toes started to numb. His nose was a forgotten dot of ice; his feet moved on mechanical orders. He had lost track of how long they had been marching. He felt like he was made of water, that he _breathed_ rain - they were swimming forever, lost in eternity until they drowned on solid land. Beside him, Ienzo stumbled, and then coughed.

It was the umbrella that they saw first.

A single yellow dot in the middle of an empty town square, it stood out like a jaunty spot of sunlight. Dilan changed direction towards it as unerringly as a magnet; the rest of them trailed behind, lifting their heads in dull curiosity.

The person holding the umbrella was facing away. They, too, were robed in white, a pale length of cloth that had been streaked by puddles. None of the researchers had the energy to call out a greeting; none of them even tried. When Dilan stopped at the rim of the square, the rest of them also came to a slow, wordless halt, and waited.

Then the man turned around and saw their faces.

The umbrella tipped gently, sliding like the hand of a clock until its point rested on the ground. Rain flattened the figure's hair down into a skullcap of grey.

And the ghost of Xehanort stared at them before offering five soft words:

"I thought I was alone."


	2. Chapter 2

They had the story in bits and pieces.

The rain was a steady drum. It pelted an incessant rhythm on the warehouse roof: a million wet horses stampeding, spitting froth, pawing thunder. Even's ears ached from the pressure. If he slept, he would dream of water. He would drown in invisible nightmares and wake up lost again.

It was Dilan who found their shelter, by impulse as much as luck. The six refugees had tried all the doors they had passed, hoping for a store or home to welcome them, but nothing responded to their knocks. No lights kindled in answer to their shouts. Finally Dilan, fed up with the fruitlessness of their search, wrapped a corner of his shredded jacket around his elbow and smashed through the nearest window.

The storehouse was deep. Elaeus had discovered power switches to illuminate the small circle they had claimed, but the thin light seemed like a fragile token against the hungry dark. The storm persisted in fighting past the broken glass; a damp breeze managed to trickle through to where they sat, huddled between stacks of delivery crates. Rough wood snagged their lab coats, leaving splinters behind. The air was heavy with moisture, reeking with the heavy musk of concrete and tar.

For a time they were quiet, engaged in their own private miseries as their clothes seeped dark puddles on the floor. Braig sprawled back against one of the cartons with an audible sigh of relief, his eyes drooping closed with exhaustion. Ienzo curled into a small knot of limbs to try and warm up; the smallest of them all, he also had the least amount of body fat for insulation. Now the they were no longer walking, his muscles took their revenge by locking up in spasm, tight shivers as they tried to stabilize their inner temperatures.

Xehanort's umbrella dripped in the corner.

The man himself sat tamely on a shipping crate. His face was tight with his own private thoughts - a forced neutrality, revealing nothing of the man's original relief when he had first seen them appear out of the rain. Like the rest of them, he had changed since they last saw him in the Bastion. Gone was the calm of the researcher; this Xehanort barely looked like his former self, bangs swept forward on either side of his temples, mouth too pinched. His skin had been bleached from tan to ivory.

But there was a sharpness in his eyes that was familiar, a bitter longing that they had grown accustomed to during the last few years: a fire that had gradually overcome the easy trust of the man when he'd been younger.

Dilan was busying himself by opening the nearest cartons. Less susceptible to the damaging winds than any of them, he also recovered the fastest despite taking the lead. Within minutes of their arrival, the lancer had managed to pry the lid off one of the boxes, revealing a fluffy mess of wood shavings - the kind of pulp, Even recognized, that artisans used to cushion their works for transit. Dilan sorted through handful after handful, but each time he groped through the shreds, looking for whatever must have been stored for safekeeping, he came up empty.

Even felt as if he had been put through a flood's worth of punishment. Now that they were out of the weather, his body kept trying to sway. Fighting to keep upright against the storm had ruined its equilibrium. His stomach roiled; he was overcome with the unaccountable urge to retch. Never before had he experienced winds that strong without cease. The Bastion had magics to gentle such things before they reached the townshead, and Even had always scoffed when warned of nature's fury.

_If I survive_, he thought glumly, _I will never make fun of Dilan's parlor tricks again_.

But his body shook off the cold well enough, which was his sole advantage. Braig and Ienzo had no such elemental affinity; their training at the Bastion had led them in other directions, neither of which were helpful with enduring a storm of such primal force.

It was Xehanort who addressed the fact that they were freezing. His umbrella had sheltered him only partially from the rain; Even and Ienzo had both fought to get under its protection, gripping the edges to keep it from turning inside-out. Whatever doubts they may have had of Xehanort's presence had been dispelled; the man's shoulder had been warm when Even pressed against it.

By some miracle, the storm had left Xehanort's clothes half-dry. Without complaint, the man stripped off his jacket in brisk motions and balled it up, pitching it across the floor to Ienzo. Next he removed his shirt, wadding it up like a towel before offering it to Elaeus. There were no marks on Xehanort's body that Even could see; no wounds, no evidence of the energy that they had flooded him with during the experiments of feeding darkness into his blood.

If the Heartless had stamped him with their colors, then Xehanort was hiding it well.

The rest of them disrobed with reluctance, peeling their coats off from being plastered to their bodies. While every inch of fabric had been soaked through, the idea of removing even the scant warmth of their ruined clothes seemed worse than sitting in the damp and letting it dry on its own.

But discipline ruled. One by one, they each reached for buttons and zippers. Their shredded jackets looked like funeral shrouds when spread out across the crates to dry. Water had seeped into Even's boots; it had been summer at the Bastion, and he had worn thin leathers suitable for the warmer days. Yanking them off, he lined the pair of shoes underneath his coat and surveyed the results with satisfaction. All that was needed to complete the picture was a corpse.

Dilan spoke up first.

"Are we dead?" Though he pitched the question to Xehanort's direction, the lancer kept his eyes studiously fixed on the crates, as if inattention could protect him from the answer.

Even was more practical. "Are we in another world at last? That _was_ part of our experiments," he added when he caught Braig giving him a dark glare. "We wanted to see what else was out there. Proper use of the Darkness was supposed to open pathways to other lands."

But Xehanort did not seem to care about the reminder of what had been done. "As far as I can tell," the man offered, "I arrived here not long ago. The last thing I remember was being strapped into the machine back in the labs. But I'm not a Heartless - the Darkness barely acknowledges me anymore. I've tried to summon the Shadows, but nothing's responded yet." He folded his arms; a stray drop of water tripped off his hair and onto the floor. "So, the experiment went wrong. I've lost whatever ties I had Darkness and gained nothing."

"But we _saw_ you. Or a creature that looked like what you used to, before this." The words came out in a growl; Ienzo's jaw was clenched tight to keep his teeth from chattering. "In the labs. You were there, surrounded by monsters. You were shouting about Darkness. That's all I could hear - _darkness, darkness, darkness_, like a battle cry. Your feet didn't touch the ground." The youngest researcher shifted, reaching out to touch the seam of Xehanort's pants, as if physical contact could affirm what was real. "The Shadows... refused to listen to our commands. They turned on us. And there you were, in the middle of it all, _laughing_."

Ienzo's voice trailed off.

Dilan finished one box and reached for another lid.

"You saw my Heartless," Xehanort said eventually. "You saw my heart."

The idea spurred him to his feet. His boots squeaked on the concrete floor as he strode through small puddles they had shed, trekking marks through the center of their group. "If part of me became an intelligent Heartless, then the experiment _was_ a success. But it must have had unforeseen consequences. My presence here must be a... a _byproduct_. A leftover of what happens when a heart is separated from its body." As Xehanort turned, Even caught a glimpse of his face; his eyes had widened, inspiration in full force. The man was formulating conclusions aloud, racing down hypothetical possibilities and discarding the least likely. "And that means the rest of you must have had the same fate. Neither Heartless nor Heart-filled," he declared, throwing out his hands and the theory with them. "Not a part of Light, but not of Darkness either."

"Less poetry, please," Braig requested from his perch. He had been working on removing his own boots during the discussion, and the bared right foot showed a cluster of red blisters that had broken along the back of his right heel. Judging from the way he was grimacing as he pried at his second shoe, the left foot was worse.

"Fine, simpler terms," Xehanort retorted, sitting down hard on the nearest crate. The act did little to stem his burst of energy; he fanned his fingers together, leaning forward in excitement. "We are not Heartless. We're worse."

The verdict was met with skeptical expressions. The other five students were long accustomed to Xehanort's leaps of insight, and even more familiar with how those leaps could be wrong.

"Proof," Elaeus demanded, and the debate turned from there.

There were no symbols of the artificial Heartless painted anywhere on their bodies that they could see. Ienzo, being the physically weakest, was the logical candidate for a thorough investigation. After a quick vote resulted in a 5-1 in favor of the idea, Elaeus and Dilan each took an arm while Braig grabbed the legs, and Xehanort paced around the spread-eagled man, poking and prodding as if the sigil would appear on command.

Nothing.

When they finally released him, Ienzo glared and dived for his pants. "I hope you're satisfied now," he threatened, voice muffled as he pulled Xehanort's jacket back around his shoulders, huddling inside its warmth.

The debate died after that. Each of the students digested new information in their own way, and their habits had not changed; Braig chewed on his lip while staring at the ceiling, Elaeus systematically cracked his knuckles. Ienzo closed his eyes.

Even touched Xehanort's arm.

"Walk with me," he requested, half-expecting the other man to refuse outright.

But Xehanort nodded, pleasantly enough, and allowed himself to be pulled along to the warehouse exit. Even pushed the door open; the faint glow of the streetlights mirrored the building lights. Xehanort's face was caught between them in a soft haze of color. The other researcher showed no signs of distress for their situation, none of the manic lust for knowledge that he had previously exhibited under the influence of Darkness.

The change was disconcerting. More than that - it was dangerous. Xehanort was not worried by the state of affairs, and his behavior no longer bore the marks of one possessed. He had been easier to encourage while in the thrall of Darkness; he had been _predictable_.

Xehanort, Even realized with a jolt, was calm now not because he had forgotten about what happened, but because he was studying _them_ in turn.

He did not let go of the other man's arm. "Answer something for me. What is the first thing that you remember happening after your arrival?"

Xehanort gave him a faint, helpless shrug. "I told you. There was the machine - "

"No." Even gave the other man's arm a rough shake. "When you came here, Xe - _Ansem_," he caught himself, weighing both names and choosing the safest. "When you realized you were no longer controlled by the Darkness. What was the first thought in your head?"

Xehanort's fingers were warm; he reached up gingerly to push Even's hand away. "The truth?" When Even nodded, he continued. "I remember opening my eyes. I was alone in the city. I walked for hours." He fell silent after that, so long that Even thought he had finished, and then added quietly, "I remember opening my eyes, and seeing clearly for the first time in a long while."

"Ansem," Even started, feeling the name like a poisonous drop of honey on his tongue, but the other man cut him off.

"I'm not him. You know that as well as I." The false serenity had faded. Xehanort's expression had closed, concealing any hints of his former life beneath a veneer of indifference. "The time for those games is over now. We are playing with fresh rules, and there's no time to waste. I leave it to you to enlighten the others."

With that, he pushed away. For one moment, Even wondered if the man would return to the company of the group - and then Xehanort stepped out of the warehouse, forsaking shelter in favor of the rain. He did not go far. Only a few feet into the road, ignoring the chill drizzle that had resumed coating the city.

He stood there, alone, before finally lifting an empty palm to the sky.

Even turned away.

* * *

Despite the violence of their arrival, the six researchers adapted to their new location with little hesitation. They had always studied together, crafting experiments and theory; now they responded with the same well-oiled habits, bouncing suggestions off one another without missing a step.

Their presence in the world was a fragile thing. None of them had weapons; their magics sparked out of control, unpredictable and dangerous. At first, they planned to rest at their makeshift shelter until the rain stopped, but as time went on, it became obvious that the weather refused to change.

Without the sun, the twin needs of sleep and hunger were their only clocks - and ones which rarely matched up. Everyone operated on different cycles. Elaeus was awake for what must have been days at one point, while Ienzo kept complaining about drowsiness and dropping off for naps without warning.

Unlike the Heartless, their bodies still hungered for physical nutrition. Water, at least, was omnipresent; Elaeus set out a jug to collect the rain, sipping from it first to determine if it was clean. Food was in shorter supply. The pressure sent Dilan and Braig out to scout for supplies, stealing Xehanort's umbrella whenever they had the chance. The two of them had poor luck, disappearing for hours before returning with sparse handfuls of bread or fruit.

Some days, they found nothing. Another time, they came back with cartons of clothes in their arms, grabbed at random from the shelves of abandoned stores. Dilan had scrounged a black raincoat from someone's wardrobe, complete with silver trim. Braig, on the other hand, had ended up with a bright purple coat with a translucent hood.

The hood had butterflies.

"What, you don't think it looks good?" he challenged when he caught them staring in horror at the cheerful white-wing print. When no one spoke, he snorted. "Amateurs, all of you. You just don't appreciate high style."

"It's hard to navigate this place," Dilan pled - and then, once his partner had left the room, the lancer leaned forward to hiss, "plus _Braig_ keeps getting me lost."

"The city does look abandoned." Xehanort touched his fingers to the rain-streaked windows. Outside, the tempest had dimmed to a slow drizzle; one translucent worm of liquid slid across his palm.

"Let's get the lights on."

One by one, Dilan and Braig began to mark where they had searched. They broke into some houses, kicking down doors and cracking windows to get inside. Other stores provided less trouble, with rear exits that had been left unlocked. At first the buildings were all universally dark, but as the two men began to explore, they left a pattern of switches behind them. A lamp here, a storefront there, until Even could look down the roads and see where Dilan and Braig had been just by following the trail of multicolored stars.

_Get the lights on_, Xehanort said. And they blossomed like wildfire - whole avenues of signs advertising movies, sales, stores. Most of the language was alien, but some symbols were familiar. Other buildings had letters they could recognize, but the words were all jumbled together, making nonsense phrases that refused to be rearranged to coherency.

_Like the trash cans_, Even realized one day. _This world is desperately trying to resemble a city, but it's missing a basic understanding of how to **be** one._

The rest of them tackled the warehouse. Elaeus assisted Xehanort in searching through the architectural layout, discovering connecting pathways hidden behind stacks of crates, walk-in closets that were packed full with boxes. Every time it seemed that they had taken a full inventory of the storage rooms, new cartons appeared. Old ones vanished. All of them were empty, stuffed with packing shreds that protected nothing inside.

Their list of clues was woefully short. While it seemed as if the storage rooms had been designed for the basic luxuries of a working crew, there was no evidence that anyone had used them. The stoplights outside never faltered, but sometimes they ran long, or had prematurely short yellows. Ienzo tried to extrapolate a timeschedule off their pattern, scribbling color codes in a notebook that Braig had brought back for him, but after all the pages were filled up with no results, even he shelved the attempt.

It was, Even reflected sourly, not unlike being children again at the Bastion - building wooden forts out of chairs, skipping lessons and hiding away from the King's scrutiny, learning the limits of what would and what would not explode. Ansem the Wise had put all six of them through their paces, emphasizing teamwork and creativity.

If only their King could see them now.

After one of their trips through the streets, Braig and Dilan came back with tales of a local infestation of stray Heartless. The Shadows had peeked around a corner, slow at first - a scattering of eyes, assorted limbs - but then the road had been flooded with writhing antenna that overboiled the alleyway and crawled across the street.

The news brought all six of them outside, dressed in mismatched jackets to ward off the drizzle. Neither Braig nor Dilan had found extra raincoats, and Xehanort had the only umbrella, so the remaining researchers settled with heavy coats to keep themselves dry.

As they walked, the corners of the streets seemed to pulse. Here and there popped the head of a Shadow, but it would inevitably stop responding to their voices. When Braig snuck closer to one, it snapped mutely at his hand before squirming away. No amount of commands controlled the attention of the Shadows for long; lacking hearts, the researchers also lacked the ability to attract the creatures' hunger.

Ironic, that the Darkness that they had worked so hard to master seemed content to ignore them now.

"What are the Heartless _doing_ here anyway?" Dilan wondered aloud one day.

"Starving," Xehanort quipped back. "Or hiding where it's dark. You haven't seen the sun come up recently, have you?"

The lancer shook his head.

Trying to use magic involved having to learn the entire language of power all over again. Deliberately calling for the Heartless earned mixed results. Once, overestimating his own strength, Ienzo summoned a handful of Shadows which were only too eager to break free from his control. Even was the first to discover his plight; Ienzo had clambered up on one of the overhanging warehouse lights and was eyeing the swarm below with mixed curiosity and annoyance.

"Please do _something_ about these," he ordered patiently, as if he were a matron who had just discovered her child's retch-up on the floor.

"You don't have a heart!" Xehanort called out, resting his hands on the walkway railing. "They can't hurt you!"

"Let's pretend for a moment that I do, and they can," came Ienzo's retort. His body was wrapped around the thin neck of the lamp, hands clutching the metal chain that was all that kept him and fifty pounds of electrics from plummeting to the warehouse floor.

As they watched, the chain began to creak.

Ienzo refused to reveal how he had managed to get all the way up there without a ladder. No one else could think of a means of getting him down. It took Braig to mount a recovery effort, arms spread as he crab-walked across a narrow bridge of thin air. Braig had always been the best of them at ignoring the constraints of gravity; he had mastered Ansem's teacup-juggling assignments with ease, but hated using more basic elements.

_Solid ground, solid ground_, the gunner muttered under his breath as he inched out onto empty space, a steady plea of _c'mon I **really** don't want to fall today, that'd be totally lame. I can do this. I **so** can do this. Yeah._

Finally, just after Braig had managed to disentangle Ienzo off the lamp hood, he turned back to the cluster of researchers on the upper walkway. "Hey, guys," he called out, grinning. "Think I should drop him?"

Ienzo hissed, and spat threats as he clung to his rescuer.

While Braig tried to convince the younger man that the question had been a joke, Even heard a strange noise. It resembled a soft series of coughs, like a corpse chuckling, air forced out of dry lungs dressed up as humor. He glanced over to his right, wondering if there was a new monster at the door, and saw what was making the sound.

For the first time since their arrival, Xehanort was _smiling_.


	3. Chapter 3

The worst part about not having a heart, Even quickly realized, was that you still had the problem of trying to figure out the nature of one. The worst part about being reborn was having to discover all kinds of new limitations. None of them had ever imagined such a fate in any of their calculations, and the city was empty of answers, abandoned by all forms of life save the occasional Heartless wriggling by.

Lacking any other inspiration, Even began there.

The Heartless _were_ hearts, but they still hungered for those of others. If that theory was correct, then the six researchers should either have experienced no cravings whatsoever, or been driven to consume the bodies of normal humans. But Dilan and Braig only reported a lingering ache in their chests - one which was easily forgotten over the course of a day. Even himself felt a strange urge in his bones whenever he was distracted; he compared it to scientific restlessness.

Elaeus called it indigestion.

Ienzo did not seem to notice anything amiss. If anything, the youngest researcher was too busy being enthralled by the puzzles around them to bother examining himself. He had always been one of the most lustful about their craft, rivaling Xehanort's own drive for knowledge; his emotions had often run strong, but not foolish, an impulse which many of them swore would get him into trouble someday.

That passion seemed under tighter control now, manifesting on command, and just as easily dismissed. The change was like watching fire and ice. Both burned to the touch, but only one consumed.

Xehanort didn't seem to care about the difference in their conditions. In fact, he was so aggressive with the claim that he earned a neat entry titled _Denial_ in the mental list that Even was starting to compile. Logic implied that the transformation should have left them as mindless shells, but all six displayed trace amounts of emotion, and Even wasn't sure how much of it stemmed from reflex, and how much was from an inability to feel.

_Instinct_, he marked down next. _Without hearts, we must be operating on instinct alone. Like unintelligent animals. But animals don't have minds like ours, which means_ -

"Even!" Elaeus's bellow shattered his musings. His thoughts melted like butterflies taking wing. "I need some help!"

"Is it important?"

"Only if you don't want to swim to breakfast!"

The city was in a permanent state of flooding. Gutters merged into cobblestone rivers. Humidity softened the air, but gave Ienzo the start of a cough that moved into his lungs and turned them wet too.

Armed with their raincoats, Braig and Dilan were having better results on their scavenging missions. They explored the concrete maze and brought back roughly sketched maps on the backs of paper bags, scrawled coordinates for the others to assemble. Even counted down the nameless streets and arranged them into combinations of order. Ienzo, with his endless need for complexity, imagined threats for them to defend against; he was finally reined in by Elaeus's more steadfast temperament when the larger man fanned out the papers with a frown before pointing out that Ienzo had been reading them upside-down.

They were all calmer than expected. It might have been trauma, exhaustion or confusion settling in, or perhaps lacking hearts did something to their ability to develop any reactions to their current dilemma. Xehanort was the most relaxed of them all. He showed no signs of blaming anyone for the situation they had landed in, as if their arrival was enough punishment for past conspiracies.

But Even found his eyes tracking the man every time Xehanort walked past. Ienzo, Braig, Elaeus - even Dilan watched the sixth member of their group, cautious as they had never been before. Xehanort had always demonstrated a strange knack for power, one beyond his conscious control. It would not be impossible for the pale-haired man to conjure answers out of thin air, only to have them go wild; new monsters for a new world, turning what little security they had found into yet another trap.

Even wasn't sure how much of his nervousness was unreasonable, and how much was mere practicality.

Dilan eventually took out all the glass in the broken windowpane by the front door, blocking the gap with boards from the wooden crates. At first they decided to simply leave someone near the entrance at all hours to let people back in, but then Xehanort got locked out without his umbrella while Ienzo was sleeping on duty, and no amount of yelling had rescued him from the rain.

Afterwards, Dilan pulled down the wooden slats with a sigh and spent several hours constructing a crude panel that could be slid open from the outside. He glared at the youngest researcher with each fresh nail, but Ienzo had already fallen back asleep.

As their shelter grew, the game changed. Temporary amusement ebbed, leaving behind the focused planning that had been instilled in them since their youth. Ansem the Wise had ordered numerous strategy games as part of their education. He had incorporated the study of defense tactics and resource management; every summer, all six of his apprentices were dumped out into the woods to combat illusionary foes, with little more than a few rations and each other to rely on.

_But how will war find us **here**,_ Ienzo had laughed back then. _Radiant Garden has been peaceful for generations. Even the soldiers only practice for sport._

_You **must** be wary,_ the King had glowered. _Part of watching over a nation also means staying on the lookout for many forms of danger. I expect a ten-page essay on the dangers of a single water supply by the end of the day tomorrow._

At the time, five of the students had sighed. Of those, three had snuck out early to go raid the kitchens, leaving Even and Elaeus to take notes for the whole group. Only Xehanort had absorbed the King's lecture with any form of enthusiasm, just as he had thirsted after all of Ansem's words in those days. Wide-eyed, back straight - he had listened and asked questions after the lesson was over, trying to devour every snippet of information with the appetite of a starving man.

_He's **brilliant**,_ Xehanort had defended over lunch that afternoon while they grumbled and cribbed each other's homework answers. _He's an amazing king. An **incredible** man_ -

_Your hero worship is showing again, Xehanort_, Braig had snickered around a mouthful of sandwich. _Gonna bring him flowers next?_

Xehanort had flushed and fallen silent.

* * *

By the time Even was done mapping out the warehouse's main floor, Braig and Dilan had moved on to plunder a second neighborhood. The circle of light around the warehouse grew steadily wider; both men had become experts in breaking-and-entering for the purpose of flipping on electrical switches. All the bulbs were in good condition, Dilan reported. Like the rest of the city, everything had arrived new.

Even eventually turned over the responsibility of mapping the city to Ienzo, choosing instead to focus on the structure that had become their home. The warehouse was composed of two main floors, sectioned off by half-partition barriers. Several smaller storage chambers were accessible from the middle wall which separated the two sides; frustratingly enough, only half of them had doors which could be accessed from the left floor, while the rest were all pointed towards the right.

They washed in the endless rain for their showers, picking cold food out of cans with foreign labels. Braig and Dilan spent days ferrying back armfuls of clothing; the garments were sorted methodically by Elaeus, who retained his knack for estimating physical measurements. Some of the clothes were too small even for Ienzo, while others hung loose on both Dilan and Elaeus both. These leftovers were shunted to scrap piles that could be used for anything from rags to blankets. Gradually, the warehouse began to resemble the inside of a traveling festival, random colors and patterns thrown haphazardly together with little care for appearances. Ienzo acquired a puffy yellow jacket which came down to his knees, and made him resemble a pineapple with grey leaves on top. Even was pleased with his new pair of boots; they replaced his old shoes from the Bastion that had never managed to dry out fully since their soaking.

At first all they had to sleep on were the storage crates, huddled together in coupled piles for warmth. After the rooms were discovered, each researcher rushed to seize one, bringing what few meager supplies they had claimed as their own.

Only Xehanort waited, letting the other five quarrel over the available privacy. As the furor began to die down, he paced along the walls. When Even found him, the man was staring fixedly at a stack of boxes, arms folded, lips pursed.

He spared Even only a quick glance. "Give me a hand."

The demand seemed illogical at first, but Even shrugged and pressed his shoulder against the barricade. The crates groaned. Their weight scraped against the floor, shedding sawdust in a trail as they were forced along the wall, inch by inch. Finally Xehanort called for a halt; dusting off his palms, he nodded triumphantly at the door that had been revealed.

Dust billowed out when they tried the latch. Xehanort fumbled along the wall for a lightswitch; when it came on, the bare bulb illuminated a cramped chamber, consisting of two shelves hung above a solid mahogany desk. The shelves were flush with a double-set of ledger books; no titles were stamped on the spines, and no authors kept visible regency over the pages.

"I'll take this one," Xehanort promptly announced, surveying the room.

Even, following close behind, squeezed past the other man to reach for the ledgers. "These are all blank," he observed, unsurprised. "Do you mind if I use them?"

Xehanort glanced up from investigating one of the desk drawers, crooking a deceptively innocent eyebrow. "I hardly think," he drawled, "after all we've been through together, that you need to ask my permission for such a trivial detail, Even."

Opening and closing his mouth twice, Even frowned. "I'm not used to you being lucid again," he parried back eventually, feeling vaguely discomforted by the other man's confidence. It was one thing for someone to feel at home so quickly in a new world - quite another for that person to be Xehanort, who had just cause to turn his knowledge against the rest of them.

Xehanort seemed to understand, for his mouth made a wry twist. "You mean, you don't like it when I have the advantage."

"I never have. Are you done here? Can we get back to the inventory?"

Wood rattled as Xehanort pulled out one of the drawers to look inside the skeleton of the desk itself. "How much could possibly be left to tally?" His voice was as languid as summer honey, flavored with clover and sugar. "We've been living here for a while now. Surely there's an end."

Even snorted, watching the other man kneel down to investigate the desk's hinges. "You might be surprised. I swear the warehouse grows larger every time I look at it. And the boxes - all empty. Where are they coming from? Who do they belong to?"

"They're probably originating," Xehanort answered, voice muffled, "from the same place we did. The dumping ground of the Heartless." Escaping the desk and sitting back on his heels, he flashed a bitter grin up towards the other man. The search had caused his hair to become disheveled; bangs stuck up in every direction, and he puffed a strand away from his mouth. "_We_ are the Darkness's trash heap."

Even mulled the riddle over as he departed, pushing out of the tiny office and into fresh air. The mysterious crates were not the only things changing in the warehouse. Each day, it seemed as if the building had grown larger; the half-partition walls had transformed themselves into hallways, and a doorway to what looked like a third main chamber had recently been discovered. Elaeus reported that a fourth wing might be possible, judging from the dimensions of the building from the outside, but they had not yet discovered how the rooms were connected.

"So have you figured out anything new yet?"

Ienzo's voice floated down from the ceiling. Even shielded his eyes as he squinted up, finding the silhouette of the man lingering on an overhead walkway. His legs dangled between the rails; unluckily, Ienzo had chosen to sit near one of the hanging lights, making it difficult for Even to look directly at him without becoming blinded.

"A few theories," he admitted. Shouting the words made his throat ache after inhaling so much sawdust; he quashed the fleeting wish to bend gravity as easily as Braig, and simply walk up thin air. It would be easier than yelling. "I still believe that we have lost our ability to retain emotions. Because we don't have hearts, we cannot have feelings either. This ennui we have all experienced - this suppression, it is because we are _incapable_ of experiencing emotion," he continued, tossing the idea out like a wet-winged bird. "After all, our hearts were taken away. Without a heart, there can be nothing present that relies on possessing one. It would make perfect sense."

Ienzo stared down at him, his face impassive.

"That's ridiculous."

"And you used to have long hair. We've all changed, Ienzo." Even tilted his chin up, attempting to find a means of continuing the conversation without having to stare into lightbulbs in order to do so. "Is it so strange to think that we might be operating entirely on _memory_ of emotion alone?" When Ienzo refused to respond, he pressed harder. "Try to become angry with me. Prove me wrong."

The younger researcher paused for a long moment before replying. "I... can't." His lips twitched. "I just... don't care enough."

Triumph kicked inside Even's chest.

"But I _am_ unamused," Ienzo added hastily, "which I'm certain can readily become irritation, and irritation _is_ just one step away from a boiling, murderous rage. Incidentally," he mused, heels dangling as he swung his feet, "congratulations on becoming a blonde."

Even scowled. "Brown," he denied sharply, his fingers shifting to pat down the treacherous locks, as if doing so would dye them dark again. "_Just_ brown. And, as I said before, our physical appearances are _superficial_ symptoms -"

"You're oversimplifying things again by dismissing that variable too quickly," Ienzo replied, dusting off his pants as he gave up on his perch, and stood. "Our physical changes may have some meaning to them. As for emotions - rationally, I can't see a reason to waste the energy on becoming angry yet, which explains why I'm not. Try again."

Gritting his teeth, Even held his ground against the sing-song of Ienzo's refusals. "I'm on the right track!"

"Your claim lacks evidence!"

"The evidence is right in front of your face!"

"Come back," the other man parried, his slight weight causing the metal walkway to flex with each step he took away, "when you have real breakthroughs, Even!"

"Ienzo!"

Scattered debates were the one familiar note in their new lives; each of the researchers had their own opinions on what had happened. While the accident in the labs was fact, their presence in the city was not, and the nature of their existence had never been addressed despite all the years of research on the Darkness.

_So much left to explore_, Even cursed, as the rain played child's percussion on the windows. He picked cold fish out of a tin, barely tasting the shreds of his dinner. The label on the side had the picture of a happy shark frolicking through red ocean waves - a choice that, Even felt, was _highly_ inappropriate, particularly since the flavor was so bland.

"You're not much of a help anymore," he accused Xehanort sourly the next day, pushing into the office without invitation and looming until the other man looked up. "I left a report on your desk how long ago? Have you even bothered to look at it yet?"

"Am I supposed to continue studying only _hearts_?" Xehanort shot back, spreading his arms like an amused vulture. "We have an entire _world_ to take care of now. Have a seat," he added, nodding towards the chairs which lined one wall. "You're blocking the lamp."

Even ignored the offer, glancing at the desk; the papers were covered in doodles, sketches of Heartless and city blocks, theory and energy transfers. "_My_ studies should be made a higher priority," he argued, trying to ignore the evidence of Xehanort's reawakening inspiration. "It is _vital_ that we understand what we are before we continue our progress forward. We cannot advance our research without a concrete basis on which to do so."

The other man sighed as he scooped up his pen and marked off a harsh line where he'd been interrupted. "No one is denying that, Even. But we must also survive. I will not make the same mistake that I did before, and lose sight of the final goal. But I'm lacking experience with my own strength. _Again_," he added under his breath, scowling absently at the far wall, biting one lip. "Right now we are weakened by ignorance. I hate not knowing what I'm capable of."

One of the squiggles on Xehanort's notes looked like a mutated Shadow. Even caught himself leaning closer before he could stifle any interest; straightening, he stilled his hands with an effort. "Perhaps the Darkness has more information. I don't mean to consult it directly this time," he cautioned, seeing Xehanort's expression tighten, his shoulders hunch up. "But if your heart is free, we might be able to recapture it. Question it. _Use_ it."

Xehanort put one foot against the desk and pushed back, rolling his chair across the floor until he could consider Even from a distance. "It _would_ make a wonderful paperweight," he capitulated, nodding indulgently towards the other man. Then he sobered. "My heart is insane. It wouldn't understand what I really desire. Therefore, it is worthless."

_Desire_. The word plucked at Even's nerves. Visions of the laboratories aflame simmered in the corners of his mind before he gathered the courage himself to present the next question. "And... what is it that you want, Xehanort?"

If revenge lurked amidst his goals, then Xehanort did not admit it. "Not to be in thrall to anything anymore." His voice was too reasonable to be sincere; it was rigid with indifference. "Not to be controlled by pathetic emotions. One betrayal was enough. I don't need a second."

The tension in Even's chest eased. He slid into the nearest chair and propped one heel against the ground. "So emotions were our downfall." The idea was as sour as an overripe lie, but it teased at his mouth until it birthed a smirk. "How appropriate."

They sat together in silence for a time, listening to the distant clatter of Elaeus climbing up and down the stairs, interspersed with the occasional shout as Braig and Dilan reorganized fresh supplies. It was not like their times in the Bastion - the humidity did not bear the faint odor of machine oil, and there was no second desk to work at - but for a moment, Even wondered if he could fool himself into believing he was home again.

Just as the pieces of his theories began to nudge themselves together, Xehanort spoke.

"Do you regret coming to this world, Even?" The words came out delicately, each syllable enunciated - as if Xehanort had to taste them to make sure they were correct. The tip of his pen drew ornate loops around the equations laid out on his desk. It was a gesture that Even recognized from their hours of study together: Xehanort was uncertain.

He filed the reaction away for future analysis, momentarily confused by the irrelevance of the question that had been asked. "I don't see how it matters. What would I miss?" he pointed out, endlessly practical as Xehanort played with his pen and dropped it twice. "Everything I have wanted to research is here."

"Except for hearts."

"Except those." Even spread his hands and lowered them, an aborted gesture that could not find a home. "But that's a mere technicality. We remain the six apprentices of Ansem the Wise. We have experienced all the training that Radiant Garden could provide, Xehanort. If we cannot solve this, who - "

"Shh!"

Breaking off so quickly that he nearly choked on his own breath, Even watched as Xehanort leaned forward, staring intently at the door. It was the same rapt ferocity that had led the man to the hidden office in the first place; now Xehanort was fixated on whatever lay outside his room, triggered by senses that did not bother to give Even the same warning. The research notes lay forgotten. The pen teetered on the edge of the ink blotter, but Xehanort did nothing to stop it.

Then he was in motion, lashing out a hand to snatch Even's wrist. There was no time to protest. A vicious jerk, and Even was stumbling to his feet, slamming one knee painfully into a corner of the desk as Xehanort lunged for the door and dragged Even along behind.

Their mad flight took them down the twisting box-hallways, taking turns seemingly at random, with no logic in the process. Twice they discovered dead ends and had to double back. Nothing that Even said worked to slow the other man down; Xehanort ran with the energy of one possessed, and that realization crawled inside Even's veins and turned them cold.

Only when they crashed into the front door did the man's energy finally wane. He leaned against the doorframe, panting; Even took advantage of the opportunity to pull away, rubbing the circulation back into his aching wrist.

"What - "

Xehanort held up a hand.

"_Listen_."

The silence was an afterthought. Even became aware of it as a pressure in his skull, pressing against his eardrums, a slow realization that something was missing - something that had been so constant that it had faded away into an unconscious presence, patient and eternal.

Without waiting for him to speak again, Xehanort turned and wrenched open the door.

Outside, the air was clear. Water slicked every inch of the road still, but it was beginning to drain, bubbling down street-grates and sewers. The buildings gleamed.

"Look," Xehanort smiled, brushing the hair back from his face and drawing in a deep breath. "The rain's finally stopped."

* * *

The sun never rose in the city, but for the first time since their arrival, the skies were clear.

The heavy clouds that had smothered their world had been shooed away, forced to sulk on the horizon's rim. They were a misty smudge in what could be a painter's epic; distant, harmless, and easily forgotten. Only a scattering of stars had been revealed. At first Ienzo tried to pull calculations down from the unfamiliar constellations: month shifts, changing seasons, or even location, but then Even walked by one day and noticed him cursing at the charts.

"I swear this place _knows_ I'm studying it," Ienzo growled, tossing his pen at the wall. The arc was shallow; the pen landed on the floor and skid, bouncing off a crate and coming to a halt against Even's foot. "It's changing on purpose to spite me."

Gradually, they came to realize that the expanding warehouse was not the most dangerous mystery in the city. White beasts wriggled about, flocking together in aimless packs that streamed up and down the roads. They bore none of the markings which the six researchers had once used to mark the artificial Heartless. Instead, they had been branded by a strange, inverse design; the decorations resembled Emblems in reverse, white hearts with holes punched out from the curves.

_Master_, the creatures would whisper, bypassing mortal voice and human ears to speak directly to the mind. _Master_, or, _my liege_.

Their attentiveness was unsettling; the homage, even worse. Only Ansem the Wise had been addressed by such titles before. Apprenticed to him, each of the six students had earned respect, but only one of them had been called a king - and that, from a deception that had robbed his sanity in the process.

For perhaps that very reason, Xehanort seemed to avoid the creatures whenever he could.

Braig finally voiced what was on all of their minds. "Are these things from Radiant Garden?"

Dilan was fast behind. "Are they Heartless Shadows?" The lancer paused after that outburst; he had always been one to speak first and revise later. "I'm serious. Is it possible for the Shadows to lose something too?"

"What's left?" Elaeus, doubting.

All five had suggestions; none of them were satisfied with the results. When _pale blobs_, _wierd monsters_, and _that thing over there that ate my pen_ all failed, the researchers looked for other terms.

"Target practice," was Braig's opinion, after the creatures had swarmed through his bedroom and made off with his shoes. He'd spent most of the day trying to track them down, leaping off walkways, running across ceilings, and - at one point - diving straight through a bathroom while Even was in the middle of occupying it.

"White Shadows," Xehanort suggested when they came to him, shrugging over his cup of tea. His office was larger; all six of them could fit in it now, with room to spare. "Simple, and to the point."

"We can't name them _that_," Dilan complained.

"I don't know. Call them Sunbeams, Pretty Ponies - tell me that among the five of you, there is at least _one_ shred of creativity." Confronted with their silence, he gave up with a sigh. "Fine. Dusks, that's their name. They're between Darkness and Light, just like we are." Upon hearing the assorted grumbles at the choice, Xehanort arched his eyebrows in faux-innocence. "Would you prefer 'Magical Sunset Fairies' instead?"

Braig paused in his attempts to pilfer Dilan's toast. "Do you think we're really those pathetic creatures, Xehanort? I mean, those wiggly white guys?" Dilan glanced away; Braig's fingers swooped down to claim their prize. "You think _they're _the same?"

Xehanort's hair feathered in white puffs as he raked his fingers through his scalp. "You said that my Heartless looked human," he pointed out neatly, glossing over the reference as deftly as a hawk fetching a rabbit mid-flight. "By the same token, _we _might be advanced Dusks. Someone study them. Talk to them. See if they know anything. There's so much that we have to learn. So many things that we don't have _words_ for, because words were never needed. Someone - "

He broke off there, looking suddenly very tired. Elaeus gave him a sidelong look, and then surreptitiously refilled the man's teacup.

Out of all six of them, it was the youngest researcher who brought up the next point. Ienzo cleared his throat; once he had their attention, he reached out for another biscuit. "Speaking of names, there's something we've overlooked. If Xehanort's Heartless is out there, there's a chance that ours are as well. If so, there needs to be a way to keep us from getting mixed up with their business. Not to mention," he added mildly, balancing his breakfast saucer on his knee, "any survivors of the Garden who may be looking for us. We've been lucky so far to not have intruders, but we should think about protecting ourselves."

Xehanort took his time in digesting the idea, pressing his lips together in a thin line. "What would you suggest?"

"Numbers," Dilan offered.

"Anagrams," was Ienzo's suggestion. "A word puzzle."

Even shook his head to them both. "Your caution is excessive. What should we use next? Codenames? Catchy phrases?"

Braig scowled at the entire room as he finished wolfing down the toast, licking crumbs off his fingers. "No offense," he began, his fisher's drawl cutting through Even's crisp diction, "but _all_ those ideas are totally lame. Tell you what," he tacked on, peering hungrily at Dilan's empty plate, "if I ever run into my Heartless, I'll just fight him for ownership of my name. Winner takes all. How does that sound?"

"Ienzo has a point," Xehanort spoke up unexpectedly. "A word is a symbol as well. Personally, I would rather not be called by the same name of a man who allowed himself be led around by his emotions." He paused, tilting his head quizzically; from the corner, Dilan continued to count off numbers on his fingers and look meaningfully in Ienzo's direction. "What would you turn mine into?"

Ienzo went quiet, his lips flexing around silent letters as his mind worked. "Xehanort," he offered softly, eyes unfocused, and then, "No heart."

Silence.

Tea slopped onto research notes as Xehanort slammed his cup onto his desk, rising to his feet with an expression gone utterly cold.

"Deconstruct Ansem's name," he announced, pushing out the door. "Make it into something worthwhile. Someone may as well use it, since that old fool isn't."


	4. Chapter 4

The next morning, they woke to frost on the windows. Temperatures had plummeted overnight. Wind brought the clouds back over the city with a vengeance, mixing rain with snow, coating the buildings with layers of speckled glass. The front door groaned when Dilan tried to push it open, shedding fragments of ice half an inch thick. He swore for several minutes, and then resorted to kicking it loose.

Elaeus scoured the warehouse relentlessly, looking for a heating system while the rest of them huddled in blankets and complained to keep warm. In the end, he managed to convince the furnaces to turn on; when Even asked the man how he had accomplished the task, Elaeus only shook his head in bewilderment.

"None of the switches in the fuseboxes seemed to do anything," he admitted. "So I just yelled at them until the heat fired up."

No one knew why the weather had transformed from summer to winter. Time continued to ignore them; Radiant Garden seemed an eternity away, and they all had lost track of the nonexistent days. Any clocks which Dilan and Braig could scavenge were set to different hours. Ienzo arranged them mournfully in a semicircle for display, and all six researchers watched the mismatched minutes tick away before Xehanort cursed, and picked one at random to be real.

Each of them adapted to their new conditions at different rates. For once in his life, Ienzo had more puzzles than he knew what to do with, each answer multiplying into twenty fresh riddles. Braig kept muttering about not being as young as he used to; Elaeus was as steadfast as ever, concerned more with the state of everyone's health rather than the circumstances that had brought them there. Only Xehanort seemed to flourish at the chance to rebuild his life anew, responding as easily to the challenge as the day he had shown up at the Bastion without a memory.

Power found them as gently as the snow had. While control of their magic responded slowly at first, as the researchers became more accustomed to the state of their bodies, their strength returned tenfold. Elaeus was even more tireless than before. Braig fell off the walls half a dozen times, cursing with each fresh bruise. Then he was suddenly standing on the ceiling more than the floor, drinking tea upside-down as Dilan rolled his eyes and complained that he wouldn't go out scouting if his partner couldn't even be bothered to _keep the same vertical_ half the time.

One morning, Even woke up to realize that he had fallen asleep with the window open. He had been penning notes in one of the newer storage rooms; the heaters had turned the air dry, and he had thought to relieve the stuffy confines by letting in a fresh breeze. But weariness had overcome his attention span. The book had slipped from his fingers and kept him company on his chest while he dreamed of nothingness.

Frost had formed on his eyelashes overnight. It blurred his vision when he tried to rub the pale hairs clean. He had always been more careless of temperatures than the others; studies of ice had given him an understanding that made the cold simple enough to counteract, but his body had never ignored the weather so easily before.

He parted his lips, and shaped a long, wordless breath that curled in a puff over his face before vanishing.

Winter kept them closer to the warehouse. Now that the building was well-lit and furnished, it seemed less of a ramshackle shelter, and more like a home. Their personal rooms remained near the junction between the main two warehouse chambers, but walkways up to a second floor had been discovered, and many of the researchers had gravitated upstairs. Study rooms had been designated, along with a pantry for food supplies that ran alongside a long table for communal meals.

It was hunger that motivated Even to finally move. Setting his book aside after marking the chapter, he followed the smell of hot bread down the halls. It led him up the stairway, mixing with the distinctive tang of citrus teas before urging him along to a rooftop door. The crisp touch of winter air licked his skin as he stepped outside, rubbing against his neck like a sleepy lover; he ignored the temperatures, caring more about his search for food.

Dilan and Elaeus had converted the open swatch of roof into a patio of sorts several weeks ago, hauling out a table and chairs that routinely had to be cleaned of snow. Only part of the attraction was the view across the city; the warehouse was situated directly behind a large watchtower, and numerous unexplored buildings filled in the skyline like so many black spears.

But the street provided enough entertainment for them all. Dilan had chosen to establish his practice yard there: a square of pavement that stretched out beside the traffic lights and abandoned streets, little more than a rough blacktop of tar. His latest hobby involved the Dusks. One expedition into town had looted tent poles from a camping supply store, and Dilan had given them to some of the creatures to test their ability to follow directions. They mimicked him clumsily, twisting their bodies around the makeshift spears and attempting to pick the weapons up; a few of them had managed to retain a grip on the poles by reshaping their hands, distorting their own limbs like sugar taffy.

As a rarity, all six of the researchers were awake at the same time. Someone had assembled a piecemeal breakfast - Elaeus, Even assumed, watching the redhead check the teapot before refilling Ienzo's cup. Xehanort was balancing a half-finished bagel on the fingers of one hand while he scribbled hasty notes with the other. A bottle of jam sat exposed on the middle of the table, a knife jutting out like a battle flag; Even made directly for it, hoping that there was enough food left over to scavenge.

Dilan had left his strange students to their own devices that day. The promise of food had also lured him up to the rooftop with the other researchers, and now the dark-haired man leaned against the shallow railing that swelled up from the side of the warehouse, chewing on a piece of buttered bread.

"I _want_," Ienzo was saying to him, in a voice that was very low and very methodical, "_scrambled eggs._ I swear, I can _taste_ them. Hot, scrambled eggs with pepper and salt, eggs on toast, eggs over easy..."

"Feeling bright and shiny today, Even?" Braig's greeting was painfully cheerful. Xehanort glanced up for only a moment before resuming his work; Elaeus made a half-hearted wave of his fingers before sliding over a plate.

Even responded with a groan. The tea smelled good. Not as welcome as coffee would be, but hot liquid would suffice to wash the torpor from his body. He filled a cup carelessly before managing a grudging, "And how are the Dusks responding?"

"They've reduced the amount of times they've almost stabbed me by accident," Dilan commented acidly. "Some of them have shown improvement. I may focus on them for future training." Then he frowned, nodding towards the blacktop. "Look at that."

Darkness squirmed within the confines of the square. The appetite of the Heartless was also strong that morning, powerful enough to send a loose pack hunting across the roads until they found themselves encircled in the boundaries of Dilan's yard. The wire fence gave them no hesitation as they slid through it; they ignored the Dusks still left inside, choosing instead to wriggle across the ground, mouthing pebbles, sniffing at the tent poles in search of a heart.

The white monsters, on the other hand, took a distinct interest in their new companions. They hovered around the Shadows, jostling one another as they dared to move closer, then jerking away whenever a Heartless snapped back. At first, both sets of forces kept their distance: black against white, marked and unmarked, each wary of the other's power.

Then a Dusk pounced.

Rubbery limbs pinned down the Heartless it claimed, struggling to trap the beast before it could fade away. The Shadow twisted as it was pulled away from the ground. Writhing bodies fought together in a scene of primal mockery, two figures locked in bloodless combat.

It was the light that startled the researchers, more than the unwarranted attack. A tiny glimmer that flickered weakly at first - a negligible, pinpoint ember buried amidst the thrashing limbs. Then it began to grow. Brilliant rays wrapped around both combatants, dissolving them in a white cocoon that burned spots in Even's vision, until the blaze shone as vivid as the noontime sea, reflecting off the windows in a chorus of newly-birthed stars.

When the light faded, it left behind a human girl.

Her figure was slender, smaller than Ienzo. Young - Even could not guess the age, save that she was not a toddler, but not full-grown either. Her hair was a deep brown, darker than Elaeus's, and it drifted around her ears with all the finesse of a half-starved mouse's pelt. Ash coated her arms and legs. Her clothes were ragged, lacking any distinctive markings that could have identified her home village. Soot had left a raccoon's mask on her face as she lifted her head, blinking in confusion.

When she saw the Heartless, she screamed.

The Dusks had backed away. Their rival Shadows turned in a unified black mass, antenna vibrating rapidly as they sensed fresh prey. Even could barely see the street; the vanishing of the light had left him feeling blind, groping helplessly for the sun which had abandoned them once more.

But it was Elaeus who reacted first, vaulting the railing like a winged god. He landed in the middle of the twisting monsters with a crash, bellowing with a bull's rage as he flung the creatures aside, and swept his arms around the girl.

The Heartless latched onto him within seconds, claws digging into his skin. They mimicked the laboratory disaster all over again: shadows thick as leeches, flesh melting together, pulsing as they coated Elaeus's body in a second skin of ink.

Even's knuckles clenched white on the railing. Beside him, Ienzo drew in a sharp breath; his face had paled, and Even wondered if the sight brought back the same memories for him.

Weaponless, Elaeus resorted to beating down the Heartless with one arm, stumbling away as he sought to get free from their weight. Braig had a foot already up on the railing, preparing to jump down; his hands patted his hips frantically as they searched for guns that no longer existed, weapons that were the only things that could turn the tide.

Xehanort said nothing as he watched, a wordless statue to Even's left.

Elaeus had already been dragged down to one knee. The presence of a heart drove the Shadows to frenzy; tiny claws sought to worm between the man's arms and maim the girl within, leaving Elaeus no other option than to try and shield her with his body as long as possible. It looked for a moment as if he would be overwhelmed before any of the other researchers could intervene - and then Dilan thrust his hand into the air, and the tent-poles answered his call.

They ripped through Shadows and Dusks alike, borne on a dozen hungry winds. Power crackled like ripe ozone. Black energy that had been conjured by Dilan's desperate need now lashed in streams around the poles, gracing them with razor points that glimmered like ghostly lances. The sound of the slaughter came in a roar of metal tongues as the mute Heartless died. The Dusks scrambled to get out of the way, but Dilan wove a lethal field around Elaeus's body, indiscriminate in its targets.

It was over in seconds. The Heartless were blasted into a fine, dark mist that was whipped away by the bitter winds. The Dusks had vanished - hidden away somewhere, Even assumed, escaping the carnage by squirming into the cracks between the pavement.

And Elaeus was struggling to his feet, his shoulders still bowed, arms heavy with their burden.

"She's alive," he forced out, the yell breaking halfway into a cough. "She's alive."

* * *

They talked about dicing, or pulling straws to see who would have the first go at her, but those ideas were quickly discarded when they realized their lack of gambling supplies. Dilan offered his tent-lances in lieu of sticks; Ienzo ignored him. Finally they all settled on the old children's game of Hotch Potch Pie.

"You're doing _what?_" was Xehanort's first reaction when they told him.

Ienzo pressed his lips together, interlacing his fingers as he nodded expectantly at the chart on the table. "We need you to fill out the competition bracket. Otherwise, it's an odd number of players, and someone will get a free pass through."

"It's an odd number anyway!"

"For the love of the Garden," Even cut in, covering his face against the mockery of it all: six powerful researchers squabbling like little kids. "Just do it, Xehanort, _please_."

Xehanort rolled his eyes with a sigh, and did not look unhappy when he lost the first throw, tossing a Pie against Potch, and then Potch against Hotch in the loser's circuit. Ienzo placed unexpectedly low at fourth; Even ranked second, leaving Braig first in line to begin the experimental research.

Braig wasted no time, scooping up the unconscious girl and heading triumphantly for the second floor. Elaeus departed soon after, shrugging away the loss. This left Even and Ienzo to stare at each other in resignation while Dilan kept going through the motions of the children's game, flipping out a fist for Pie, and then the double-finger gesture of Hotch. _Knife cuts the crust off the pie,_ that's how the rules went, but Dilan always threw Hotch, no matter how many times his opponent beat him with an opened Pie.

"You _lost_," Ienzo snapped at last, unable to tolerate how Dilan kept naming the throws under his breath, an endless rhythm of _Hotch Hotch Pie Potch_. "Get over it. At least you beat Xehanort."

Dilan looked unperturbed. "You mean Xemnas."

"I mean one of them, _Dilan_."

Mention of the lancer's birth name caused him to sober. "Best two out of three?"

Even escaped their arguing. Ienzo was predictably irritated because the game had been his idea in the first place, and he must have expected to rank highly as a result. The girl represented a wealth of potential experiments in her pristine state, one whose mind had not yet been infected by observations of the new world. Instead, it was Braig who would be shaping the first questions for her to answer, Braig who would be leaving expectations for her to fill.

Ansem the Wise had always stressed the two-way nature of all interactions, and had often paired his students off for a similar exercise. The interrogator would always be studied in turn by the subject they were questioning. In turn, bonus credit was given if the subject could subvert the direction of the conversation; winning involved uncovering your opponent's secret without giving up your own.

The same practice, unfortunately, had not been applied to the Darkness.

He discovered Elaeus on the opposite side of the warehouse from Dilan's practice yard. Somehow, the man had found a shovel, and had begun to carefully break up sections of the sidewalk pavement to reveal the dirt beneath. Originally,the redhead had tried to collect small samples of plants from around the city: windowsill boxes with delicate ferns, or potted hangers that Braig and Dilan had dutifully carried back, muttering about abolishing agriculture.

The stalks grew without sunlight. Braig, noticing that, had laughed and claimed them to be Heartless plants. But living seeds remained absent from the city; there were no parks, no weeds, no lawns. Though five of the researchers had shrugged away the mystery, the sixth had uttered one mildly horrified word.

_Oxygen._

Elaeus's studies had always revolved around the natural world, and that pursuit was what captivated him now. What little soil he had uncovered was rocky, stained by the tar that had been laid over it, but Elaeus seemed willing enough to work with the stunted materials. He walked by inches, tapping the shovel against the sidewalk bricks as he moved, frowning to himself.

As Even circled closer, weaving his way around the shattered blocks, the other man looked up.

"There's not nearly enough earth in this city." Weariness touched Elaeus's voice for a heartbeat, and then was deftly buried. "Rains make this soil muddy. Snow freezes the earth. Maybe a greenhouse would be better." Another step forward, and Elaeus paused to squint at a crack between two bricks, kneeling without hesitation amidst the grit to poke at it. "Do you think Xaldin will help me if I ask? He's better with building layouts than I am."

"I don't think it matters." Even watched him for a while. "Elaeus -"

"Don't call me that." The chastisement was without rancor; Elaeus had always held his temper even when pitted in fierce debate. "It's supposed to be Lexaeus now, remember?"

"Why does it matter what we're called?" Nudging a chunk of brick aside with his foot, Even scowled. "I don't understand this new _game_ of Xehanort's. He always conjures wild ideas. He has a child's sense of propriety when it comes to _real_ study."

"Maybe because he never was one." Elaeus's voice, solemn, held nothing of concern. When Even looked towards him for clarification, the man only shook his head. "Xemnas came to us as an orphan. Perhaps that's why it's so easy for him."

In the silence, Even let his gaze drift over the sidewalk. Elaeus did not have the proper tools to uproot stones and concrete, so he had resorted to the roughest workman's tricks. Small divots had been chipped out of the bricks. Several chisels had been driven into the gaps, like seamstress needles studding a length of cloth. The cracks were thick with ice. From his studies, Even knew that the properties of water could be used to expand those small crevices; he could only imagine the patience needed to lug buckets back and forth from the warehouse, cold water to freeze, hot to thaw.

"I think he has a point." A grunt, and Elaeus gave up on the brief attempt to pry another brick free. "I like Ien... _Zexion's_ idea. Our old names aren't lost. They're still a part of who we are, but they're not _everything_ we are. When I look at my memories of the man known as Elaeus, I don't recognize myself. Some characteristics are similar. The memories, I've inherited. But I'm not entirely him." The man shook his head, slow and ponderous. "The problem is that you still see Elaeus whenever you look at me. Each time you do, it's like you only see what I was. Not what I am now."

Even watched as the redhead got to his feet, studying the ground for a long moment before moving on to the next block of side-pavement. "And what are you, then?"

"Alive." There was a faint smile on Elaeus's face as he worked. "Think about everything you did when you had a heart. Would you make those same choices? And if you didn't, would you want someone to treat you like Even, _just_ Even - the one on the surface that everyone saw, not the person you are now?"

Confidence stuttered in Even's mouth; he hesitated, digesting the questions. "I don't know." The admission seemed humbling, simple words in the barren garden. "I hadn't looked at it like that before."

The redhead chose not to push the advantage; instead, he eased the conversation sidelong, steadfast and methodical. "Do you remember - back at home - how you would get upset if we invited Xehanort to an experiment, but forgot to ask you?"

"Because it was unfair to allow him to have access to early advances," Even defended stubbornly. "A perfectly understandable situation, and one easily sympathized with."

"Do you?"

Even blinked.

"Do you," Elaeus repeated, mercilessly gentle, "sympathize with it now?"

Forced to reexamine old pettiness, Even balked. "I might."

A scrape of gravel, and Elaeus was tracing his shovel over the pavement, like a dowser hunting for fault lines. "One night," he began quietly, matter-of-fact, "shortly after Xehanort arrived at the Castle, you came to me talking about how you were planning on running away from the Bastion. You were that angry. You had all kinds of plans about where you'd live, what you'd do. But in the morning, you came to breakfast just like the rest of us."

Even winced at the memory. Elaeus kept his face averted, carefully aimed towards the ground as he wedged the tip of the shovel's blade between two blocks, and pushed.

"Do you want me to think of you as the same man who'd get so jealous over nothing? Or have you changed, Vexen? Who are you now?"

* * *

Braig responded the least to the new names, more stubborn than Even - claiming they could call him anything, Ansem the Wise Reborn for all that it mattered. But the protesting was familiar, following old habits of arguing among the six, and that alone made the transition easier.

As the days went on, Even found himself mulling over Elaeus's verdict. It had been a while since he had last confronted the redhead on the field of philosophical realism, and he felt woefully unprepared. Ansem the Wise had stressed ontology as part of their studies; Even had skipped class on those days. Elaeus had not. His strength was a quiet one, but all too easy to underestimate based on appearances, and Even was privately annoyed that he had fallen into the same trap of assumption.

Avenues for conversation in the warehouse were slim. Xehanort had shuttered himself away in his office; Elaeus continued his personal crusade to discover a natural environment in the bizarre city. The remaining three researchers were fixated on their new prize. Despite Braig's win, everyone knew that Dilan would simply cheat and split the gunner's hours anyway; without his partner, Dilan rarely scouted the city alone, and their shelter was well enough stocked with supplies that urban hunting was not vital.

It was with resignation that Even joined the interruptions to Braig's workroom, trailing behind Ienzo and leaning in for a view through the doorway. His arrival earned a shushing gesture from Dilan's direction; ignoring the lancer's caution, Even watched the interview that was already staggering in its traces.

Braig had set the girl up on a stool, her back to the wall and two chairs hemming her in. He twiddled a pen between his fingers, but the papers on the nearest table were all blank. None of the questions posed had won answers by the look of it, and the afternoon was half-over.

"So, feel like sharing your name with us yet?"

The girl's throat was very white. It fluttered when she swallowed, a trapped dove sensing the hunger of the fox. "I... please, tell me where my family is," she forced out, squirming on the wooden seat. She was sitting on her hands, knees pressed together, shoulders hunched. Now that Even had a moment for study, he saw that she was older than he'd originally thought; fear made her smaller, shrank her down until she looked no bigger than a war-starved refugee.

Braig mulled this over, leaning back against his chair. "Perhaps we could give you one, since you're not being very helpful," he suggested eventually, ignoring her grimace of dismay. "How about... hm, how does Aerlen sound? Has a nice ring to it."

"That was your _dog's_ name, Braig," Dilan hissed, grabbing the man by the shoulder and giving him a rough shake.

Braig's eyes darted from the girl to his companion. "She doesn't know that! You don't know that," he pled next, seeing the horror in the girl's features. Then at last, "_It was a very good dog!_"

But the moniker stuck, despite any wishes to the contrary. No one else volunteered a name, and the girl refused to speak of her past, regarding them all with a suspicion that bordered on terror. She did not demonstrate the awkward naivete of amnesia; nor did she offer any information save in the form of repeated demands to know about her family, about her father, and why her house had been engulfed in black flame.

The lack of progress was taken in stride by Braig, who seemed willing to accept any delays as another form of strategic patience. Even grew tired of visiting each day, only to discover the gunner engrossed in building intricate pencil forts, or tearing blank pages out of the books to fold a fleet of paper boats.

One morning, Even pushed open the door, only to flatten himself instantly against the nearest wall as a white missile streaked past where his face had just been.

"Close," Braig remarked, giving a thoughtful nod. "Too bad."

A piece of paper had been tacked to the back of the door. Tiny ink dots spotted the lopsided circles that had been drawn on top of it, and as Even glanced around, he saw dozens of loose pens scattered across the floor, victims of the gunner's boredom.

"What in the seven halls of the Bastion are you _doing_, Braig?"

"It's called, '_making friends_,' Even. See, _he_ needs practice too," the gunner confided in the girl perched on the table beside him. She seemed torn between laughing and cringing away in terror. Braig cleared his throat. "Aerlen's not too good at darts. We're working on that."

"If your idea of _companions_ involves _aiming_ things at them - never mind," Even sighed, waving his hand to forestall the answer he knew would come. "I should know better. I was hoping that you'd at _least_ gathered the physical specifications of the subject for us to review."

"She kicked me," Braig answered cheerfully. Two fingers came up and tapped his jaw. "Right here. _You're_ welcome to try, if you think you'd have better luck."

The challenge was thankfully diffused by the sound of footsteps down the hall; Elaeus turned the corner at a jog, his loping pace easily taking up the distance. "Vexen!" He leaned against the doorway, pausing when he noted the girl's presence. "I apologize for the interruption, Xigbar. Zexion's been looking for his raincoat - we can't find it anywhere. Have either of you seen it?"

Aerlen was staring at the taller man; her eyes had gone round and wide, bright blues in a pale, hopeful face.

"No," Even replied briskly, flipping the conversation around to try and snatch the child's sudden interest. It was the first expression he had seen on her that did not contain hostility, fear, or both. "This is Elaeus," he informed her. "Also known as Lexaeus, I suppose. He saved your life. Are you grateful?"

The girl pulled her gaze away, long enough to peek hurriedly in Even's direction, and then down to the floor. "Ye... yes. I am."

"Subject is grateful," Even noted. He scooped up one of the errant pens from the floor and scribbled the observation down on the crude paper target, scrawling over the scoring lines with a flourish. "Subject may be reacting out of surprise. Further interrogation is required."

At the subversion, Braig stiffened. "Hey. _My_ interview, remember? Shoo!"

* * *

It was several weeks before the girl finally chose to act.

Supplies were low. In a rare show of initiative, Ienzo had volunteered to go with Elaeus out into the city, accompanied by a handful of willing Dusks. The creatures had gone slack without Dilan's instructions, and had taken to approaching each of the researchers, waiting patiently until they were given an order. Even himself had accumulated a half-dozen who hovered around his reading room, eagerly picking up pens whenever they fell off tables, or clumsily refilling his tea.

Piqued, he had thrown his pencil out the window, hoping the distraction would shoo the creatures away - only to discover them all returning with it several minutes later, cradling the writing implement in their pointed hands.

Unable to get a moment to himself, Even finally pushed himself to his feet, stalking down the halls until he reached Braig's workroom. The door was ajar; he shoved it open the rest of the way without pausing.

Aerlen was gone.

Even stared blankly at the room, tilting his head just in case she was hiding beneath a table. No girl revealed herself from thin air. Behind him, the cluster of attendant Dusks bobbed and swayed; Aerlen was not hidden among them either.

"Where is she?"

Braig opened his mouth, eyebrows arched as he made a show of thinking. "Er... around?"

Even felt a sudden headache beat against his temples. "You lost her."

"I did _not_ - "

"A rare specimen of a reunited Dusk and Heartless, and you _lost_ her."

"I _may_," Braig retorted, "have misplaced her when I went to ask Xehanort for more pens. Oh, _believe_ me," he added, seeing Even's face twitch, "she's not going to get very far. Our little friends are already on their way."

Braig spoke true. The Dusks had vanished during the course of the argument, eager to serve; by the time that Even pushed out the front door of the warehouse, gunner in tow, one had already wriggled back to deliver a report of their success.

_The girl, Master_, it whispered, words without sound, directly into their heads. _We have found the girl._

They were not alone. Dilan was already there, perched on a mailbox at the end of the alleyway Aerlen had run to. He was kicking one heel listlessly against the belly of the metal box; it clanged with each impact, a jerky _tong tong tong_. Judging from the noise, it was as empty as the rest of the city.

He lifted his hand in greeting when he saw them, extending the gesture into a wave towards the narrow lane that broiled over with Shadows.

"I believe you dropped something, Braig. Good thing I found it for you."

"Yeah, yeah, _stuff_ it." Humor had abandoned the gunner's face. Braig strode forward, heedless of the Heartless which were swarming inside the alley; one of them latched onto his boot, and he ground his heel upon its body until it struggled free.

Aerlen was a battered figure huddled against the back wall, half-illuminated by lazy streetlights. Somehow during her escape, she had snatched up one of Dilan's tent-poles; she clung to it with both hands now, swinging wildly at the ring of Heartless which inched steadily closer. Occasionally, when a Shadow grew too bold, Dilan would snap a finger and send a sharp-edged gust whistling down the alley to knock it away - an intervention which was not frequent, for Aerlen sported several long gashes on her arms and legs, testament to the mute ferocity of the creatures.

She looked up as Braig's silhouette licked down the alleyway.

"So," he purred, a rough chuckle that kept its humor on a leash. "The little bird tried to fly away from the hunter."

Dilan and Even had both received the brunt of the eldest researcher's ire in their youth; Braig's moments of discipline were rare, but absolute. Judging from the girl's cower, she had never expected him to be anything other than friendly.

Still, she kept her chin steady. "I have to go home."

"Then I guess this is your first lesson. There _is no home_." Braig took another step forward; the Shadows parted before him, resentful peasants yielding before an enemy general. "Second lesson: these things will _eat_ you. Third lesson, that's why we keep you under watch - for _your_ protection, so you're gonna want to think twice about leaving it.

"Fourth lesson." He swept through the last few ranks of Heartless to her, shoving away the tent-staff that she clutched for a rudimentary defense, until he was leering in her face with a yellow-eyed malice. "You might have picked up the wrong impression from all the fun we've been having together, but I _think_ I should tell you something."

His voice was a cold hiss in the alleyway as he leaned closer.

"_We don't have to be nice._"

She was more docile afterwards, obeying without protest as they escorted her back to the warehouse. She did not provide her name, but she allowed Braig to take her physical measurements without a fuss, and he handed over the data to the pack of hungry researchers at the door. Dilan escaped with the folder first; then Even managed to get his hands on the figures, taking satisfaction in withholding the information from Ienzo.

Unable to bar everyone else from the observation chamber, Braig tolerated more of their intrusions. Ienzo appeased the gunner by bringing sandwiches for lunch; Even preferred to observe, speaking up only when he felt the interrogations were lacking.

Those moments were common.

"So what I am... my personality, it's actually my heart." Aerlen had almost as many questions as they did, and Braig seemed content to allow her to lead the discussions. "But I'm existing inside a body that has its own mind - being overpowered by my heart. Is that right?"

"Most Dusks are dormant," Ienzo supplied helpfully. He was sorting through the gauze bandages that had been used to bind the girl's wounds after her escape, and was carefully labeling each with a small tag. "They haven't had a chance to live and breathe on their own. In a way, they've never been born, because they've never had the opportunity to. Yours did. But by reuniting with your heart, you forced it back into suppression."

"You're messing with her head," Braig drawled from the corner, lacing and unlacing his boots while he played with various forms of knotwork. "_My_ interview, remember?"

Aerlen absorbed the information dutifully. Her hands were folded in loose fists, one on each knee; she sat with her back straight, jaw tight as she constructed each new query. "What was my Dusk like? Was it... like you? Or like the white ones?"

Ienzo did not pause with his answer. "It was indistinguishable from the others. Your will is unremarkable - only average. Boring."

"How do I make it stronger?"

This question finally stopped the slender man, and he lowered the gauze he'd been studying to regard the girl with mild amusement. "Do you want to live? That's a start."

"Ignore Ienzo," Even interrupted automatically, unable to resist throwing a contrary bone into the discussion. "He's been talking to Xehanort for too long."

"_Out_," Braig ordered at last, climbing to his feet with one boot half-off. It clumped on the floor as he flapped his arms in their direction; the man's scowl was comically fierce as he attempted to evacuate them through facial expression alone.

Ienzo smirked back, even as he relinquished ground step-by-step towards the door. "Are you ever going to get anything done here, Braig?"

"I," the gunner informed him crisply, "am going to take Aerlen outside, and we are going to test her reflexes with a snowball fight. Any bystanders," he continued, "_may_ be in danger of becoming casualties. You've been warned."

Hours later, after Even had returned to scribbling notes in his book, Ienzo stalked by. The scruff of his hair was plastered to his scalp, dripping wet and encrusted with slush; he was muttering about the dangers of a snowbank, and the unfairness of being double-teamed.


	5. Chapter 5

Aerlen's acceptance of her situation brought both relief and discontent to the warehouse. Relief, that they no longer had to worry about her being killed through her own rebellion, and displeasure that the brief excitement had waned. While the novelty of the girl's presence remained sufficient to keep them entertained, there were only so many exercises that could be performed without proper laboratory equipment.

"We have time," Braig pointed out, ever-practical. "She's not going anywhere, and neither are we."

The reminder was sobering. Despite their best efforts, none of the scientists could determine just where they had ended up in relation to Radiant Garden. Dilan's suggestion that they were sharing a mass delusion was less frequently mentioned - but it, too, could not be dismissed, any more than Ienzo's theory that they had passed through Kingdom Hearts and were now existing as reversed forms of Heartless.

Unable to test their ideas, the scientists rapidly found themselves violating the privacy of Aerlen's interrogations. Nearly all of them visited openly now, in packs of two or three. Only Xehanort refrained. Mornings began to slowly stabilize in a communal routine, with five of them showing up to rummage through the cabinets for some form of breakfast, and grumble over the tasks awaiting them that day.

Aerlen joined them for their meals. She was allowed out of her testing rooms more frequently now, though never without Braig or Dilan nearby. The Dusks had been alerted to keep watch on her at all hours, and Braig had compensated for the additional company by attempting to draw the white creatures into his various games: hand-tag, darts, or the occasional catch with Even's notebooks.

The stray Dusks were only too eager to please. They flocked to the observation chamber in droves. The density of so many bodies made the hallways awkward to navigate; thankfully, one of the nearby rooms had been cleared out to provide a larger communal library. There were no books to read yet, but the shelves could still be used to store all the data they'd managed to collect, carefully partitioned off into six different sections.

Each researcher claimed one. Despite the segregation, several of them had infected their neighbors. Dilan and Braig's areas were one communal mess of folders and reports, and Ienzo had renovated Even's lowest shelf into a shoe cubby.

The library was as mutable as the rest of the warehouse. One of the walls was studded with long windows that overlooked the right half of the building, but the view alternated between Dilan's practice yard and an empty street. After three extra stairwells had suddenly appeared near the pantry - resulting in half of them going hungry while they searched for the dining room - Ienzo had hung a carefully lettered sign on the door, labeling the chamber as the Study Room.

Within a day, someone had added a jaunty, _Abandon Bookmarks, All Ye Who Enter Here_, underneath.

The careful loop of the 'Y' identified the culprit as Xehanort. Even had examined the graffiti with curiosity, wondering why the other scientist had isolated himself, a drifting presence on the edge of the crowd.

But the sign had - so far - worked. It managed to keep track of the place through all the shifting halls, despite the fact that the Study Room had already wandered downstairs and upstairs twice.

That morning, it was on the second floor. As Even pushed into the room, yawning into his mug of fresh, hot tea, he was surprised to find the tables covered in small decorative boxes. The packaging was ornate: thin cardboard that had been inscribed with gold swirls. It looked as if Dilan had - in a betrayal of all practical sensibilities - pillaged an artisan's gift shop rather than a grocer's.

The man himself was still stamping slush off his boots, heavy bull-beats of his feet on the floor. The snows were coming down heavy by the look of it; the windows showed what looked like a blizzard in progress, and Dilan's raincoat was dripping, his hair encrusted with melting flakes.

Elaeus and Ienzo were seated at the biggest table, where both of them were occupied in methodically sorting through the packages based on size and shape. Braig was absent; Aerlen as well, both of them likely squirreled away in the observation chambers for more of the gunner's frivolousness disguised as research.

Even surveyed the room with suspicion. His face felt oily from sleep. The few slices of bread he'd snatched from the pantry had settled like a buttered rock in his stomach, and he quickly realized that he was in no mood for curiosities.

His tea tasted bitter. "What did you find today?"

Ienzo was turning a thin rectangle over and over in his hands, reading the white label which sealed the package shut. "Xaldin went out to bring back cinnamon for me," he answered, distracted, and then promptly tore the seal open, spilling a dozen taper-candles all over his lap.

"Cinnamon?" Struck by the oddity of the request - and that it had been fulfilled - Even shot a wary look in the direction of the lancer.

Dilan lifted his shoulders in an exaggerated shrug, a false innocence that dared to be challenged.

Even rolled his eyes, and turned back to the youngest researcher. "What could be so important that you had to insist on a task like _that_ today?

"How can you expect to keep your mind sharp if you don't maintain the first five senses?" Having succeeded in keeping the candles from tumbling onto the floor, Ienzo stacked them neatly on the table. "Most of these are wicks - not quite what I was looking for, but I believe they can still be used for our purposes."

"And burning the place down helps us _how_?"

"We need to establish locations without relying only on sight." Sighing at Even's lack of comprehension, Ienzo shoved the candles aside, leaning over the boxes so that he could rap the table with one ink-stained knuckle. "Everything continues to change, but the air currents smell the same no matter where you stand. Both the maps of the city and the warehouse blueprints are out of date, and we don't know what will show up next. Hasn't anyone noticed that there's an entire _ballroom_ in back now?"

As one, the group turned.

Dilan blinked. "Why is everyone looking at _me?_"

"Because you're the only one of us who knows anything about structural engineering," Elaeus spoke up, practical as ever. "Remember the time Vexen's door was rigged to lead to Zexion's closet instead of the hall? We all knew Xigbar got help from you."

The lancer snorted. "Believe me, if I could make buildings out of nothing, we'd have a better place to live than _this_. The hot water always runs out if I forget my share of the chores. The streetlights turn green whenever I'm crossing the intersections. And don't get me _started_ on the question of our sewage systems. My only guess is that this building, this _city_ - it's responding to our presence, just like the Dusks do." Thwarted by their expectant silence, the man threw up his hands and resumed unlacing his boots. "How about this - _if_ you manage to find an aero-suspension device that you want me to look at, let me know. Until then, I know as much as the rest of you."

Xehanort was calm when they dragged him out of hiding, desperate for his opinion. He had been spending less time in his quarters, choosing instead to wander the unexplored rooms of the mysterious warehouse, appearing only sporadically for meals and brief conversation. The evidence of his foraging was occasionally littered around the dining room in the form of discarded spoons and teacups, empty bowls in the sink. He volunteered no answers, but offered no questions either, content to exist in his own private realm.

He listened to the reports of the warehouse with a bemused expression. Finally, just as Ienzo was winding down the recitation of the long list of transformations the first floor had undergone, Xehanort shrugged.

"Do you remember what we learned in Preliminary Chaos?" His voice was unconcerned. "The only way to seize control over something _out_ of control is to let go."

"We also learned that to do so risks being lost inside that very maelstrom," Even retorted, sour-mouthed. "Or have you forgotten the events which brought us here?"

A momentary wince around Xehanort's eyes was the sole clue that Even's words had struck a mark. "Very well." Another loose, indifferent shrug. "Establish something concrete. Name the warehouse and the streets. Name the rest of the hallways, the rooms - give them definition. Use colors. Use scents," he added, waving towards Ienzo's collection of candlesticks. "Make these things real in memory. It's a start."

The new idea, predictably, caught the attention of the group. Ienzo immediately dove for the rows of boxes again, rattling off the eager claim that he'd _known_ the idea would be useful, that it would work. Elaeus ran his fingers through his scalp - a stilted gesture, considering how short he wore his hair now.

Only Even noticed when Xehanort stood up and walked away.

Perplexed by the other man's disinterest with the current project, Even made a hasty excuse and also headed for the door. No one stopped him as he slipped out. At first he feared that he'd lost the man - but then he caught sight of a flicker of pale hair disappearing around a corner, and hurried to catch up.

Xehanort was in the dining room, taking refuge for a late breakfast. Their imprisonment on the new world did not change much about the man's tendancies. He had chosen to wear the simplest layers to keep warm, leaving his hair loose, his bangs stray. True to form, he had brought a pen with him, and was scribbling furtive notes on one of the paper napkins.

The words blended together in a fit of cramped letters. It was a sight that reminded Even keenly of the Bastion: Xehanort caught up in some project or the other, working on whatever surface was at hand. He would study through meals at times, as his food grew cold and the other students got bored and drifted away.

The only glaring difference was the Dusk hovering obediently nearby. It must have been one of Elaeus's followers; Xehanort tended to attract the fewest Dusks, and the ones which lingered around him all did so with caution, or what might have been deference.

As Even approached, the other man deftly snagged a muffin from a stack of leftovers, and dropped into the nearest chair, still concentrating on his notes. The Dusk shuffled aside; Even spared it a momentary glance before coming to a halt across from Xehanort, the table safely between them both.

"I'm surprised that you haven't been investigating our newest find as avidly as everyone else." At his words, Xehanort glanced up, halfway through peeling the wrapper off his breakfast. "It _can't_ be self-control that explains why you're waiting your turn."

Polite amusement crossed the man's face. The corners of his lips were tight. "We have a little girl in our possession. She cries, she smells, she does all the things a young child might - and I, for one, can skip being a parent. I've had a _terrible_ role model," he added wryly, through a mouthful of blueberry muffin.

"You speak of her like a baby, Xehanort."

"She may as well be one. And it's Xemnas now. Here, sit down," he added, seeing Even's mouth open in protest. "I'll show you something that you might find interesting."

Bewildered by the other man's behavior, Even yanked back one of the chairs and grudgingly sat. The Dusk scuttled away, back to Xehanort's side of the table. "We have a human who is the product of a Dusk and a Heartless reuniting," he announced flatly. "How can anything be more interesting than _that_?"

Xehanort frowned at his muffin. "Could you please pass the butter?"

Even glanced down, sliding the small dish over to the other man with a flick of his hand. "Are you listening? This means that there is nothing _lost_. That all the components of a person are encompassed in - "

There was no warning.

One moment, Xehanort was buttering the other half of his breakfast; the next found him twisting sharply in his chair, driving the dull knife into the Dusk which was waiting attentively beside the table.

It was an awkward kill. Despite penetrating the first layer of the creature's body, the blade did not inconvenience the Dusk, and its limbs continued to sway in the air like white riverweeds. Its head tilted in confusion. Down to the knife, up to Xehanort, and then next in Even's direction, waiting patiently for orders.

Xehanort gripped the small knife fruitlessly for a moment before letting go with a sigh, and resorting to magic instead. Energy crackled along his fingers, leaping from his empty palm to the metal buried in the creature's chest. The spell stank of lightning, a basic electrical cantrip that Even recognized as basic to their first years of study.

Whether it was the element or the power itself that did the trick, the Dusk finally reacted. Its limbs spasmed, contracting like an insect with a punctured underbelly; it leaked no blood, but its body thrashed more and more wildly as Xehanort's spell refused to relent. With a final contraction of its spine, the creature bent nearly double backwards - and then disappeared.

The butter knife made a small clack as it hit the floor, bloodless.

Of the Dusk, there was nothing left.

Xehanort fanned his fingers in the air, gesturing dramatically to the empty space where a creature had once stood. "Look. No corpse."

Even blinked. "Like a Heartless," he observed curiously, wondering if there was a sinister motive to the demonstration. "Is that what will happen to us?"

"_Not_ like a Heartless," Xehanort corrected. "You've isolated hearts from living test subjects before - you've seen them drift like moths before fading away. But with the Dusks, not even a speck is left behind. Hearts rejoin Kingdom Hearts, but Dusks?" Brisk, he flicked a blueberry crumb off his plate. It tumbled across the tablecloth and fetched up against Even's napkin. "Nothing, with no body to mourn. I noticed the discrepancy first when Xaldin defended Lexaeus in the courtyard. My further tests have proven it."

The idea of Xehanort performing unregulated experiments was alarming; the violence of the acts was worse. Even found himself staring at the other man. "Is that what you've been doing up here, Xehanort?" His tongue felt thick, careful with the words. "Murdering Dusks all this while?"

Xehanort met his gaze head-on, fearless of his own conclusions. "As you can see, there is no body." Absently, he reached out to straighten the butter dish. "If we were truly flesh and blood, then we would leave something behind when we die. But this? Not even dust. There is a _flaw_," he continued, utterly casual in the face of his own work, "in our conclusions."

On the floor, the knife gleamed.

Even felt the challenge teasing at his brain, pulling him deeper into the riddle despite his caution. "So a Dusk is not simply a physical body," he ventured. "It's been changed. Attuned to something else."

"Attuned to _nothing_." Xehanort took another bite of his muffin, and then pushed his breakfast away. "Come on. Let's go for a walk, since the snow seems to be lightening up at last."

The habit was an old one, born from extended debates and quarrels that both had warred at over the years. The two of them could circle the Bastion several times in a month, spurred on by periodic arguments; more than once, Even had thought about shoving Xehanort into a lake. It was second nature by now for one of them to pace and the other to follow. The exercise helped work off the heated energies that would inevitably rise when they both were challenging one another - another habit that neither had grown out of despite all their time together.

Even was the sole researcher who did not have to bulk up against cold weather, but he brought his coat anyway to keep the snow from melting into his clothes. It was a heavy thing, with an ugly pea-green wool and fat, brown buttons. The wool liked to itch against his neck; Xehanort had stolen all the turtlenecks, though, leaving Even to suffer.

Winter had transformed the city. It was a different world than Even had initially been exposed to during the first nightmarish days of their arrival. Snow made white mountains out of mailboxes; mounds were piled high on the traffic signals, diffusing multicolored glows into an ambiance of greens, yellows, and reds.

They talked on the road - or rather, Even attempted a one-sided conversation as Xehanort strode purposefully along, his yellow umbrella bobbing through the snow. Nothing incited the other man to speak. Xehanort moved with a ruthless intent, wasting no time as they pushed through the streets. He was bold enough to use magic to walk on top of the snow, his weight barely indenting the surface; Even chose the less-flashy method of reinforcing the drifts with a thin layer of ice, allowing him to sink only a few inches with each step.

All too quickly, their path led them out of the explored neighborhoods. The ring of storefront displays terminated suddenly at the corner of two streets; beyond that, only the occasional streetlamp blinked. The apartments were black, unyielding towers. Unlike the rest of the city - where each bulb was intact and strong - the lamps which lined either side of these roads were dead.

At first Even hesitated, but Xehanort continued to walk, unhindered by the failing light.

The snow was a faint blue glow under their feet, catching the shine of distant stars. The radiance was barely enough to provide dull outlines of the buildings. For a time, the reflection from the streets behind them was sufficient to provide illumination; then, as they continued to walk, even that light began to wane, until there was nothing left but stars.

Xehanort strode forward without pause, but Even flagged behind, trying keep track of the bobbing shape that threatened to vanish into the shadows.

Uncertainty slowed his feet. Pushing forward into nothingness seemed like a fool's plan; there were still potential dangers in the city, for all that the researchers had only discovered Dusks and occasional Shadows. The possibility of a greater form of either creature still existed - or better yet, one of their own Heartless, turned as ravenous and crazed as Xehanort's.

Finally, he stopped.

Silence rolled around the street.

Then Xehanort's voice trickled back. "You can't see?"

"No." Shifting his weight from foot to foot, Even heard the faint squeak of snow compressing beneath his boots. "I lost _that_ knack when I came here. I haven't spent enough time contacting the Darkness to recover it. But you already have?" he added, hearing an edge in his own voice that might have been wistful, or simply wary.

Xehanort's presence was a blot in the night, a vague form whose shape blurred into his jacket, into his umbrella. "Why not? I'm not afraid of the Darkness."

"Neither am I."

"Then open your senses to it again." Xehanort moved closer. He sounded slightly exasperated, as if speaking to a young child. "It won't hurt you anymore. You don't have a heart it can consume."

Even flinched back automatically from the suggestion. "No." The word was husky in his throat, a rough drawl of caution that reminded him of Ienzo's own predicament when the younger researcher had been trapped on the warehouse lamp. Even had laughed at the other researcher then; he had not realized that the same dilemma might confront him as well. "I remember what the Darkness did to us the last time. Don't _you_? Or perhaps," he added, more sharply, "you have forgotten the fact that it will no longer accept us as one of its own? How can you be so willing to enter an allegiance with it again?"

Now it sounded as if Xehanort had moved to the right, then the left; the combination of winter and stone muffled his voice, echoing his voice off the buildings nearby. "How?" he quipped back, amused. "Because I have nothing left to lose."

Just as Even had realized that being alone with Xehanort on an unlit road rated very poorly on his list of good ideas, a hand drove into his back. He stumbled forward, struggling to keep his balance as the world plunged into utter blackness. Vertigo was his only clue that he had not been knocked unconscious; the darkness cut off even the faintest glow of stars, a sentient velvet that devoured any hint of light.

He took a deep breath, reminding himself of the basic principles that Ansem had taught them all from their very first days with magic.

_Inhale. Form a circle in your mind. Exhale._

"Even," the darkness whispered. "Open your eyes."

He shuddered against the sound before he realized it was only Xehanort's voice, Xehanort's whisper glossing over his ear. Xehanort's sly hunger purring, closer now, hot on the skin of his neck.

"_Even_."

Despite his own self-control, Even found himself jerking forward. The snow caught at his feet; blind, he staggered crazily, groping blindly for support. His toes bumped against something unyielding - it might have been the curb of the road, or his ankle twisting on his own ice - and suddenly Even was falling, tumbling into the night.

Automatically, he threw his hands out; they broke through a frozen crust of ice, and then gravity kicked in as its own form of orientation, dragging him down, smashing his face into the snow. A blossom of fear rose like a bubble in his chest, and Even suddenly recalled vivid childhood terrors of falling forever, wrapped inside a burst of what felt like _emotion_.

Curious, he reached for it.

Darkness was there to greet him - the primal force this time, not the simpler blackness that had enveloped the road. Old connections still lingered in his mind. He had known of them since his arrival, but the wild power had refused to listen, shunning all his attempts to coax it back to his control.

Now it waited for him, filling his thoughts as easily as it had flooded the street. Even hesitated at the sensation that prickled his nerves, but the small whispers of emotion were already disappearing, vanishing before he could analyze them.

It was impossible to concentrate. He could not determine if true feeling had coursed through him, or simply the memory of it - his terror had lasted that briefly. Every second that passed took the experience further away; whether it had been emotional or analytical, he could not tell.

He made the decision swiftly, plunging into his own thoughts. The Darkness parted before him; its touch was cool, disinterested, like a crowd of merchants who had deemed him penniless. The change was disconcerting. In the Bastion, it had teased them all as a seductive force, offering enlightenment and satisfaction both. Now it ignored his presence.

Completely.

Old rotes of meditation remained; he turned to them now, finding the smooth tunnels of thought that had been paved down to mere instinct. Ignoring all caution, Even chased down the spark, slipping free of his own self-restraint as he tried to retain memory of what it had felt like.

The emotion dissolved quickly. Automatically, Even ran the circumstances over and over in his mind, repeating the tableau of Xehanort, the snow, the blackness. Xehanort. Winter. Darkness. The hand on his spine, pushing him forward, unseating his balance. Xehanort's voice in his ear. Winter.

Xehanort.

All too soon, he reached a plateau of calm in his thoughts, and realized he had forgotten why he was so afraid in the first place.

His chest felt empty. His mind too - the challenge of confronting the Darkness had left him weary, giving him no sense of strength, but nothing removed either. It was far different than he had expected. Like two foreign animals, they had both passed by one another without the inclination to fight.

As he swam gingerly back to awareness, he realized he was curled up in the snow like a lost child.

Breathing hurt. The frost began to tense his muscles in tiny shivers until he remembered to ignore it. Dim outlines rose around him as he opened his eyes; the city had reformed, but when Even lifted his head to the sky, he saw the stars had not returned.

His voice was ragged. "What have you done to me?"

The indignity of his position crossed his mind for a moment, a comforting scorn; then Xehanort entered his vision, leaning down to offer a hand.

The man's skin was cool to the touch. His words were colder. "I simply reminded you that you don't have a heart, Vexen. Your instincts did the rest."

The idea seemed ludicrous. Even was too exhausted to protest. He accepted the help grudgingly, gripping Xehanort by the wrist as he pulled himself up. The Darkness-graced sight was not as clear as he remembered from his experiments in the Bastion, but it sufficed.

Firming his shoulders, Even gave crisp flicks of his jacket to try and shake it clean of the snow. "Is _that_ what you brought me out here for, Xehanort? You could have simply turned out the hall lights."

Xehanort watched him for a moment, all casual mischief gone. "No." He turned away suddenly, his umbrella shedding a miniature storm. "It's down this road. Be careful."

* * *

The world was gone.

At first Even thought his sight had failed as swiftly as it had returned - the Darkness was a frivolous force, after all, and he knew of its tendency to dangle gifts like toys. But the gap was there no matter how long he stared, how many times he rubbed his eyes.

Xehanort had led him down the twists and turns of the streets, never backtracking, never hesitating in his quest. At first Even had been wary, twitching at every flutter of snow that tumbled past. Then, as time went on and no strange beasts leapt out of the alleyways, the man began to relax into boredom.

Just as he had begun to wonder how long they would be walking without a break - and if it would not be better to simply return another day - Even realized that Xehanort had come to a halt. Rousing himself from his thoughts, Even had lifted his head, a demand for an explanation already on his lips.

And stared out into nothingness.

The road broke off into blank space. Something had eaten the city away, leaving a dark pit in the landscape. Not even snow poured down into the gap, as if the sky itself had gone missing overhead.

The decay chose a ragged line to follow. It had not chewed at the streets evenly, choosing instead to tear down one shop while skirting around the edges of another. It was as if the void was an infection that had worked its way past healthier tissue, and now threatened to erode the nearby buildings, devouring more and more of the city as the natural defenses failed.

He approached the chasm gingerly.

Nothing spawned to greet him, thirsty for his blood. The city was silent. Crisp winter air entombed the street; no winds were present, and not even a breeze wafted forth from the pit. Dazed, Even extended his fingers, half-expecting the tips to be sheared off once they crossed the line into darkness.

When nothing happened, he exhaled slowly.

"It's gone." His words were pathetically simple, childish in the face of oblivion. Interest warred with self-preservation; gathering his jacket back with his hands, he knelt at the edge so that he could examine the destruction that had been wrought.

The gash went all the way down through the city. Exposed pipes peeked out of concrete, sheared off as cleanly as if they were no thicker than lace. Here and there, the infrastructure of the buildings were visible through layers of concrete, forming urban layers of strata that any geologist would envy.

As Even leaned forward, a small chunk of tar loosened under his weight; alarmed, he jerked back in time to watch it tumble away, disappearing rapidly into the void below.

"I've been measuring the progress of the decay." Xehanort crouched beside him on the snow, rolling the handle of his umbrella between his fingers. His voice was barely louder than a whisper. "The dimensions of the city are not improving. Judging by the current clock cycles, we have less than a year before this place is completely gone."

Even swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry.

"Have you told any of the others?"

"Not yet. For now, the girl can keep them occupied. I'm sure that Braig and Dilan have seen the boundaries of our new world, but I doubt either has lingered to study the phenomenon. Both have more important matters to focus on."

Even could not keep the skepticism out of his voice. "Oh?"

"If you hadn't noticed, Xigbar is occupied in convincing the girl not to inconvenience us by jumping out a window." Xehanort's fingers sifted through the top layer of snow. The flakes were grey dots on his gloves; his umbrella, a discarded child beside him. "Xaldin is single-handedly organizing the Dusks. If he continues, we should have a well-disciplined force."

An image of the twitching, malformed beings rose through Even's mind. Ignoring all temperatures, they had continued to practice in the outer yard, mindlessly repeating their exercises with brooms, tent poles, and sticks. "And how can _those_ creatures be turned to any use?"

The other man barked a short laugh. "I know you don't respect Xaldin, but you know as well as I that he has studied what we have not. We may be scientists, but no scholar masters every field." A pause, and then Xehanort's lecture turned to old amusement. "Are you _still_ bitter that he beat you?"

"No," Even said quickly, but it was too late.

"You're lying." The accusation held no malice; Xehanort only studied Even with a slight furrow of his brow. "Why? You lost your heart. What's left to continue that old quarrel? Is it so easy to retain feelings of jealousy?" When no answer came, the man broke into a lax smile. "You're the one who claims we should feel nothing at all, Even. Losing my heart was a blessing. Maybe you should have finished losing _yours_."

Forced to withdraw his protest lest he be caught by his own theories, Even returned his attention to the gaping chasm. "There are more important matters at hand, Xehanort. Do you know where the city is going?"

"I'll wager that it's not returning to its origins. Listen." Grasping a fistful of snow, Xehanort stood and flung it into the air, towards the abyss; the white clump vanished all too quickly, flakes breaking apart to be devoured, one by one. "When a heart has no body, it becomes a Shadow. That Shadow returns to Kingdom Hearts. Kingdom Hearts births more life. This is the full cycle of the heart. If it is a normal death with no Heartless involved, the heart merely returns to its origins with no Shadow as a middle step." Another handful of snow, and then Xehanort sketched a lazy circle in the air for emphasis. "Life is never really destroyed - it is only changed, following the principles of energy. It's _identity_ which is lost. And that identity defines who we are, which is why it is so important."

"We've established this back in the Garden," Even replied dismissively, the easy banter serving as a ward against his own sickened nerves. "The visiting King said that hearts can be freed from the Shadows, but not recovered. They return to Kingdom Hearts."

"He _also_ said that he didn't know very much about that place, or about the Keyblade that he carried. Regardless, he never mentioned the Dusks." The back-and-forth patter of Xehanort's logic picked up speed. "Therefore, we can assume that they are not related to Kingdom Hearts - and also have no central origin that stores them. This means that if we die, we will die forever. Unlike hearts, there is no remnant. Neither Light nor Darkness will include us in their cycle. We have been removed."

Sorting through the scattered tangents of Xehanort's logic was a nightmare at the best of times, rivaling Ienzo's multilayered puzzles. Even pressed his fingers against his temples. "Tell me," he ordered bluntly, "_what_ that means."

The other man was silent for a long moment. His eyes were sober; his mouth resigned. It was the expression of a man whose private war had already been fought bitterly within - fought and lost, and could only hope to conceal that fate from his children.

"When a Dusk dies, it disappears," he began slowly. "This city is doing the same thing. And if it vanishes when it dies, it's like the Dusks - like us."

"I understand that," Even snapped. "Get on with it."

Xehanort continued steadily, as if he'd never been interrupted. "So what is happening to this city now is the same death we can look forward to. "

The pit stubbornly refused to undo itself. Xehanort waited patiently, poised on the snow like a creature out of story and just as impossible to understand. Given two equally unpalatable choices, Even chose to look at neither, tilting his head up towards the starless night. The air cramped his lungs. "What's the solution?"

"I don't have one."

Frustration tore a hiss out of Even's mouth. He pushed himself to his feet. It was hard to regard the chasm directly, to watch the world continue to dissolve. Even found himself wanting to turn away, to only glimpse it through a corner of his vision - but nothing would escape the truth that had been presented. "And will this city crumble to nothing before we can stop it?"

"This world has no heart." The verdict was plain, ruthlessly simple. "Maybe that's what it needs to keep from fading away. We must gain the power necessary in order to preserve it, and ourselves as well."

"Power?" Even choked back the start of a laugh, brittle and high. It was the mockery of an old crone; he could not keep the noise stifled, and it flavored his next words. "You speak of the impossible, Xehanort. We have come to a dying world. How do you propose to reverse death itself?"

Xehanort turned back towards the road, away from oblivion; he reached out to grip Even's arm, hard. "We have seen the Darkness, Vexen," he grinned, his jaw hard, the expression forced. "We have _seen_ the Shadows, and the loss of our own hearts. What better foe to conquer next than eternity itself?"

When Even did not reply, Xehanort's voice lowered. "We _will_ live through this. Say it."

"We _won't_." Even broke away with an effort. His heels kicked up snow as he backpedaled. The pressure of Xehanort's fingers had left an ache in his bones; absently, Even rubbed at the spot where he'd been touched. "The odds are astronomically poor. I would wager that they are impossible."

"That may be so." Swinging away from his cool intensity with as much ease as he had slipped into it, Xehanort scooped up his umbrella and gave it a brisk shake. "But you have to believe something before it will become true."

"Belief is the start of _delusion_, Xehanort."

For a moment, the other researcher looked pained. "Thank you," he said softly, "for reminding me of that."

* * *

By the time that Even received the girl - weeks after Braig had been allowed to begin the opening interviews - she had recovered a measure of confidence. He noticed this with dismay on the first day when she did not creep obediently into the testing room, head bowed and cringing. Instead, she arrived with a sandwich and a glass of juice, stealing gulps from it as she slid onto the chair set aside for her testing.

As much as Even hated to admit it, the girl he met in his workroom was greatly changed from the hostile, belligerent youth that Elaeus had saved. She had been cleaned of the dirt which first stained her body; her hair had been trimmed to resemble a simple bowl, a page-boy's cut that was far more sensible than the rat's nest she had arrived with. Braig had retrieved clothes that were roughly her size from the scrap fabrics, and now she was dressed in loose pants and an oversized tunic, subdued colors that avoided any of the gunner's flair.

_Perhaps Braig does remember how to produce results_, he thought grudgingly.

Xehanort's revelations weighed heavy on him; a great portion of the satisfaction Even would have gained from his claim on the girl was now overshadowed by the state of the city. There was no longer any opportunity for research performed at leisure. Time had reentered the picture, in a world which ignored all clocks.

And their time was already running out.

"So," he began, "how was your turn with Braig?"

Aerlen wriggled on her chair, tucking up one foot underneath her leg. She chewed on a mouthful of her sandwich reflectively before answering. "He said something about how tensor fields explained why you're always in a bad mood. And that if I was smart, I'd study alge... algebraic geometry."

"Do you want to be really _good_ at throwing pens?" Even snorted. "Then read up on fission instead - elemental fission, to be precise. Cold things," he elaborated simply, turning over the first sheet of the file that Braig had dropped off earlier that morning. The man had used a toothpick for a placeholder. "Temperatures govern pressure, pressure leads to energy, and all of it is more useful than hanging upside-down like a monkey while you guess at trajectories." He flipped through more of the report irritably. Braig had not discovered the child's original name, but he _had_ collected page after page of exacting calculations of her weight, mass, reflexes, and implied cognitive development.

Nothing about her age. She was taller than a little girl, but too thin to be a full adult. Once more, Even attempted to make a guess, and failed - anything under the age of twenty looked the same, too young to think properly.

She proved him right by her next question. "Who are you people anyway?" The sulk was directed at her orange juice. "I keep getting told different names."

"Habit." Shoving aside the folder, Even reached instead for the tray of diagnostic instruments. Elaeus and Dilan had broken into an infirmary several weeks ago, and now the warehouse was stocked with rudimentary medical supplies. Even had picked his at random; he'd never studied medicine. "The others see me as someone from their past, and I see them similarly, I suppose." He gestured for her to lean closer, and forced her tongue down with the depressor, examining her throat. Nothing seemed diseased. "Xehanort would like us to remember new names, but it is difficult sometimes when it's just us around."

"Why?"

He stared at her. "Next we'll have Dusks raiding libraries and offering commentary on literary dramas. It'd be just as useful as wasting time educating you."

She met his gaze bravely before giving a toss of her chin. "I can learn. I'm smart. I can read, and write, and - "

"You're a _test subject_." The wooden depressor clattered as he pitched it into the discard tray. "A human who managed to come back from the Darkness through the union of a Dusk and a Heartless. It's unfortunate," he continued brusquely, scribbling down the assessment of _healthy_, "but that's your fate."

"But what _are_ Dusks?" Her voice was soft on the vowels. "You all seem like normal people to me."

Hesitation paused Even's hands. That same debate had been raging for weeks with Ienzo, each of the other researchers chiming in with their own erratic opinions. Even had been forced to adopt some of the more logical arguments; the rest, he continued to discard. "A body and a heart have a symbiotic relationship. Perhaps even a parasitic one." Turning to a fresh sheet of paper in his ledger, Even lettered Aerlen's name at the top and began to outline a chart. "The body's personality remains dormant until the heart is no longer there. Both a heart and body can be too weak to maintain their own individuality - the body because it has had such little time to develop independence, and the heart because it is linked to the Darkness."

"So a heart isn't important?"

Nettled by her stream of inquiries, he underlined a word with excessive force, leaving a shallow groove in the paper. "You don't understand. Don't try to. It's easier on your mind if you don't make the effort. Just assume that since we have no hearts, we have no emotions."

"But you _do_ have feelings." Stubborn, the girl leaned forward on her chair; her mouth was set in a frown. "Just yesterday, I saw the short man laughing with the man with the sticks. Ienzo. And... and Xaldilan."

"Zexion," Even supplied automatically, filling in the blanks. "In his former life, he was known as Ienzo, but I recommend you call him Mister Illiterate. He likes that. The stick-man, as you say, is currently named Xaldin. It'd be best if you didn't call him anything. Regardless, both of them were only imitating emotion. They aren't affected by it the same way."

She digested this information slowly, rounding back to her original topic. "What about the man in charge - he smiles a lot when he's eating sweets. He enjoys them. That's happiness. Isn't it?"

Even's pen slowed in midstroke.

The answer caught in his throat unexpectedly, winding around facts that had been only too easy to ignore. "Xehanort forgets that he doesn't have to be like Ansem anymore," he said at last. "What you see is unconscious habit, lingering behavioral patterns - nothing else. He forgets," he repeated, quietly, "that he used to hate sweet candies. He forgets that we told him what to be."

"Then what _is_ emotion," the girl shot back, "except for what you learn? My mom always said that you can teach yourself to be happy or sad. Isn't that the same thing?"

He looked at her again, surprised. "You're intelligent. This is fortunate. It raises your value."

Aerlen scowled at the compliment, but her cheeks had darkened in a blush. "I don't have much else to think about while I'm here."

He gave her a quick, pitying smile. "It was a good guess. But you are completely wrong." Pitching his voice to a confidence he did not feel, Even slid his notebook aside. His train of thought had been fully derailed by memories of Xehanort, before and after the Darkness. "If you took away Xehanort's treats, he would not miss them. He is unable to care."

"Then go ahead," she challenged. "I dare you."

Even swallowed.

Sensing her advantage, the girl folded her arms, spine straight in arrogant defiance. "Are you scared?"

"No. But before we continue, we should have you undergo your vision tests. Elaeus has requested a check-up in advance, and I have agreed. Since there is other business for me to attend to, I'll have a Dusk bring you to him."

Some of Aerlen's courage ebbed away at the change in routine; she cast a nervous glance towards the door, and then a second one at Even. "I thought... I wasn't allowed to go anywhere without someone with me."

"Things change." Cutting each of his words off with crisp disdain, Even stood, shutting his notebooks with finality. "Don't complain."

* * *

Even's bedroom was deserted when he returned, empty of any Dusks that might have lingered in hopes of orders. The lights were off; he flicked them on with an irritated grunt, not caring to rely on Darkness to grant him sight.

He had not been vain enough to insist on anything save the most basic functionality for his room: a bed, a table to write on, a chair. The Dusks had brought him trinkets anyway. They had carried in cabinets to store his clothes, a low footstool to match the chair. A clock formed from a metal sphere and an excess of numbers; he'd fiddled with the thing for ages in order to get it to display the right hour.

But it was the small hand mirror that he sought, a circle of glass no bigger than his palm. He had seen it only once, briefly when the creatures had first carried it in; it took him several minutes to find where it had ended up, shoved to one corner of a cabinet behind several books.

He hesitated upon picking it up, and then turned it to face him.

"Vexen," he stated carefully, really looking at himself for the first time since their arrival - the paler hair, the eyes which were a clear green instead of the muddied hazel he'd rankled at all his life. When he'd been younger, he had always hoped for more distinctive features. Now he had them, but at a price.

He did not know if he liked the difference.

_Vexen_. It was a name that weighed on the same syllables, but with a click in the middle from the additional letter. Something added, rather than taken away; something new, that would not have to be hidden inside another word. Aerlen's presence implied that their current existences would be erased, should they ever find their hearts again - erased or suppressed, or affected by emotions beyond their own control.

And then there was Xemnas: Xemnas, who had rejected his own heart, who had sought Darkness, who was Ansem the Wise and Xehanort the Student and now might only be pretending differences from them both.

_Have you changed?_ Elaeus had asked. _Do you want me to think of you as the same man?_

_Who are you now?_

"Very well," he agreed aloud, watching the lips of his reflection shape the words of his surrender. "Vexen it is."


	6. Chapter 6

Tramping about in the snow with Xemnas held one consequence that Vexen did not expect: all that time taking endless measurements, discussing the progress of the corruption, and sketching out road patterns made Vexen susceptible to one of Zexion's lingering flus. The illness seized him like a dog with a rabbit. One morning he woke up aching, and by the middle of the afternoon, his entire nose had stuffed up, leaving him bleary and snappish.

Xemnas had little sympathy.

"You're supposed to be resistant to cold weather, aren't you?" Behind the full stack of folders in his arms, Xemnas's smile was ripe with skepticism. It made Vexen think of cats and cream, and then about ways to kick them.

"It requires energy to maintain such immunity," he retorted, as loftily as possible with flooded sinuses. He narrowed swollen eyes at the other man. "And any energy expended still weakens the body. Besides, if you had kept up on your reading, you would know that low temperatures have little to do with viral infections."

Xemnas had taken that declaration with a pleasant shrug, tolerating Vexen's refusal to explore the city on foot. The stack of mathematical calculations was left at the foot of the researcher's bed like a stack of errant homework assignments. Xemnas had retreated from the sickroom without protest.

Huddled behind a pile of handkerchiefs, Vexen found himself thinking that Xemnas might have fought a little harder on the subject, at least.

Even after the scientist had recovered, he chose to refrain from plotting out the city's decay on foot. The measurements which Xemnas copied - artificial street designations annotated with a curling hand - had to be plotted out on the maps, and there were no other scribes to pawn the menial task onto. The decision also brought Xemnas to him, rather than the other way around; it forced the other researcher to yield to Vexen's schedule. A tenuous control, at best - but one which Vexen clung to, lacking any other that might coax Xemnas to normality.

Since his revelation about the city, Xemnas had slowly begun to spend time with the rest of the researchers again, as if doing so would ease suspicion away from him and the awful secret he had shared. Still, the man held enough quirks to fill three lifetimes. Ansem's adopted habits still cropped up in Xemnas's behavior, coupled with the tendencies of a former identity before that.

And Vexen had never understood Xehanort.

Unfortunately, choosing to stay inside also gave Vexen no means of avoiding Aerlen when she was being stubborn. Xigbar's threat sufficed to make her obey basic decrees, allowing them to measure her physical statistics without having to chase her down every other day. She accepted any number of basic tests to record her eyesight, height, and weight - all provided easily enough, with no additional insight into her origins.

But while she had been friendly enough with Xigbar, she had no such inclinations for anyone else. To Vexen, she lied, and did freely. Nowhere in Xigbar's records was there evidence of contrary statements, but when Vexen posed his questions, he got back answers which had no consistency from day to day.

Aerlen was a diversion, but he did not have the patience to fight with her, and she _knew_ it, with the annoying clarity of children.

"Is it that you simply enjoy misbehaving?" Both of them had struck an impasse that afternoon; Vexen had resorted to pushing his pen around his lap, unable to find anything of worth to write down. "Or do you not understand even the simplest requests?"

Restless in her chair, Aerlen shifted around; she folded one leg under herself, and then propped her chin in her hands, staring mournfully at the notebooks piled on the tables. "Braig would take me outside with him," she volunteered suddenly. "Or we'd play darts, or he'd tell me about what it was like growing up in your castle. _You_ just ask me questions."

Vexen frowned. "I have no interest in games."

"_Obviously_."

Which was the last word he could wrestle out of her that day.

When nothing could coax her to speak, the researcher simply sighed, collected his notes, and retreated to the kitchen for some tea.

"How old are you?" he tried the next time he visited, weary of the roundabout stories she had been offering whenever he inquired after her family.

"I don't remember." The girl swung her feet with a defiant glare. Lexaeus had given her a supply of skirts, but Aerlen had ripped them up along the lengths and tied the fabric at her ankles to form impromptu, baggy pants. The habit might have identified her as a coastal villager, if it wasn't for the fact that none of her other behaviors matched. "I was supposed to celebrate my birthday two weeks before it happened. And I don't know... I don't know how long I was a Dusk."

"How long you were a Heartless," Vexen corrected automatically. "Technically, I am speaking to your heart now. Your Dusk is inside you somewhere, hidden once more."

"But it's... " Breaking off, Aerlen bit her lip. "Isn't she just like me?"

Drawing in a deep breath, the researcher set his pen aside with a click. "That's debatable," he began. Words shuffled around in his head; he picked them with care, even as none of them seemed to fit appropriately. "I retain my memories, but I can see how my actions were surely influenced by my emotions. My Heartless is an irrational version of myself, perhaps. One ruled by sentiment, rather than logic."

Something about his answer disturbed her; the girl slid off her chair and wandered over to one of the worktables, ignoring his tacit disapproval. "But the things that I want and don't want... those are the same as she would, right?"

"Maybe it's better to say that your Dusk is thinking through the lens of your heart." Zexion's voice floated through the room; Aerlen glanced over her shoulder, poised on her toes, while Vexen did his best to ignore the disruption. "Or that your heart is working with the instincts of your body and soul. Your decisions are made by both of you together, unconsciously."

At that affront, the researcher could not remain silent. "That's _my_ theory," he protested, turning in his chair at last to glare at the visitor. "I suggested it to you last night!"

"You didn't explain it well then, either." Padding into the room, Zexion offered the girl a faint smile. But it was Vexen that he addressed his next question to, a deceptively mild jibe out the side of his mouth. "Shouldn't you have made further progress than this? With all your complaints about Xigbar, I thought you'd have her entire life history by now."

"I _only_ got the child a month ago. And for the first part of that," Vexen defended stubbornly, pointing his pen like an arrow at the other man, "I had other studies to wrap up."

Zexion had already settled on one of the spare chairs, deftly tearing a blank sheet of paper off the top notepad. His fingers folded down the edges in precise motions, making the rectangle into a perfect square, and from there into a triangle. "That's no excuse. If you can't make good use of the subject, trade her to me."

"_You_ simply are more conversational with her, Zexion. That is no reflection upon my own capacities as a _scientist_."

A thin smile was his reward. "Human beings aren't temperature calculations, Vexen."

"They should be."

As Vexen's expression turned sour, Zexion laughed. "Finish _your_ explanation, then," he added, inclining his head with mock generosity. "I can wait."

Resisting the urge to roll his eyes, Vexen gathered the threads of his concentration back together. It never boded well whenever Zexion showed a merry disposition; that fact been a constant even in the Bastion. "When you go into a dark room, Aerlen, doesn't your body warn you to be careful by tensing up?" He waited for the girl's reluctant nod, and then folded his hands in his lap, tapping one finger impatiently. "Your heart hears the message. You become afraid. Similarly, if you become happy, your heart tells your body to smile. As Dusks, we remember what the proper reactions are, but we lack any other cues than memory. Just as I remember to become annoyed whenever Zexion is being difficult. Is that sufficient?" he concluded briskly, turning his head in the other researcher's direction.

Paper had transformed itself in Zexion's hands during those few minutes, changing from a pinched triangle to a small bird whose wings were eternally extended. "I think you've contradicted yourself twice already, Vexen," the man observed drolly. "Do you even make _sense_ anymore?" Seeing the researcher's expression, Zexion suddenly grinned and tossed the paper twist aside. He slid a small notecard from a pocket and passed it over. "Here."

Vexen turned the card around in his fingers several times before deciding there was no other puzzle than the phrase printed on the front. "'The Chamber of Missing Words?'" he read aloud, examining the letters twice to make certain he had seen them correctly. "What nonsense is this?"

"I thought it would be an appropriate name for your room. Lab. Get some windows in here." Reaching the limits of whatever patience he'd had for the game, Zexion stood and waved airily towards the door. "If you did, you'd see that the snow has started to melt. You're missing the end of winter."

* * *

The weather was noticeably warmer by the time that Vexen bothered to make his way outside, shuffling folders under his arm and muttering about interruptions in his work. Aerlen insisted on coming along; when he tried to leave the warehouse without her, he only found the girl doggedly trudging along behind him, her head lowered in a determined glower.

Zexion's claim was true. The snow had visibly lightened, sloughing off the rooftops and changing to sluggish rivers in the gutters. The drifts were barely deep enough to sink Aerlen's feet up to her ankles. She kicked up small waves of slush as they walked, alternating her scowl from the ground to Vexen, and then back again.

Disoriented by the sudden change in climate, Vexen attempted to regain his bearings by examining the warehouse from the outside. It had been a while since he had taken the time to study the building - Xemnas had not spoken of any alterations to their living quarters - and now as Vexen paced along the sidewalks, he could see cause for substantial concern. The building had expanded like an architect's nightmare. Extra wings bulged out at odd angles, many hanging precariously off the second floor, or what might have been a _third_, depending on how Vexen tilted his head.

He was still wondering just how they had managed to get an entire tower installed near the middle of the warehouse - and which stairways might lead there - when he rounded a corner and found himself in Lexaeus's garden.

Earth struggled to find a place within the city. The diligent efforts of the burly researcher had torn up several lengths of pavement and tar, clearing a rectangle of dirt that rivaled the size of Xaldin's practice yard. Cleared rubble had been placed in a loose barrier to fence the area off; the wall was no higher than Vexen's knee, but it was wide enough that he had to step over it cautiously, careful not to mar the construction.

Aerlen was forced to clamber over the side, dislodging several slabs of gravel in the process.

The noise roused a bubble of white skin that pulsed out of the ground; after swelling into a man-sized blister, it broke apart into a cluster of Dusks. They scattered across the snow. Two of them bustled up to the girl, flattened heads turning to silently regard her even as their wide paws scooped up the fallen chunks and replaced them neatly on the wall.

"Diggers," Vexen observed aloud, considering the new shapes that the garden Dusks had taken on. Natural selection seemed to have played its own role despite their status as artificial constructs: the Dusks which chose to work in Lexaeus's yard all had slightly different forms than the ones which practiced with Xaldin. These ones had wide, spade-like hands and feet. Their ankles were thick as firewood logs. Workers, not fighters, though he could easily imagine any of them roused to merciless defense.

Deeper in the yard, more Dusks were hard at task. An entire crew of busy helpers were working on breaking up the remaining sidewalk, patiently sweeping the rubble together in neat piles for transport. The cleared soil had been divided off even further into squares by string and wood; a thin carpet of greenery coated several of the areas, pieced together from what looked like an array of houseplants.

The phenomenon was interesting enough that the researcher knelt to examine the closest section of ferns, pinching the fragile leaves in his fingers as he sought out any evidence of yellow patches or outright decay. Then a shadow fell across his view, blocking out the streetlights; when an irritated wave did not magically shoo it away, he looked up to see Lexaeus there, shovel in hand and a smudge on one cheek.

The redhead offered no greeting. Vexen did not give one. Instead, he prodded the soil with a finger, noting that it felt gritty and damp and nothing like the frothy loam of the Bastion gardens.

"You've managed to grow grass in a place like this?" he asked, even as his observations bordered on doubt.

His suspicions were confirmed when Lexaeus shook his head. "Nothing lasts longer than a week. The Dusks bring me things, sometime, and I can root them properly - but nothing new will sprout. I can think of any number of reasons why the ground is fallow, but only time will prove my conclusions. "

Vexen gave the dirt another skeptical glance. Gardening seemed far more trouble than it was worth. Encouraging the city to incorporate a natural environment at all seemed an impossibility; perhaps if they had the resources of the Bastion to force such a change, but magically creating a sun and moon from scratch would be just as likely.

"Why try?" he found himself asking aloud, unable to keep the scorn from coloring his voice.

Lexaeus accepted the disdain readily enough, one corner of his mouth twisting in a wry smile. "Because we are parasites, Vexen." His shovel wedged itself into the ground, worrying against a cauliflower-wad of pebbles. "We can't keep scavenging off the city. Right now, our supplies come from the worlds that the Heartless consume. But if the Heartless don't exist, then we won't either. We have to be able to create _new_ things here. So until we find out any differently," the man continued, punctuating his lecture with a long sigh, "it's best to plan for long-term survival. Our food has to come from somewhere. At the moment, we're surviving off scraps - but that can't last forever. The beings we are now have to become self-sufficient on a number of levels."

Vexen sat upright suddenly as the full impact of Lexaeus's words sank in; in his surprise, he nearly unbalanced his weight off his knee, and had to steady himself quickly. "You can't honestly believe we'll last for generations here," he blurted. "Eventually, we may grow old and die - and where would _children_ come from?" A plethora of images flitted across his mind; he rapidly dismissed them in horror before finding the cool refuge of science as his defense. "Besides, anyone born would not be a Dusk, but a merged person from the start, complete with body and heart. Dusks are _not_ self-propagating."

"Do you know that we're sterile?" Lexaeus's voice was reasonable despite the discussion; he presented his ideas without flinching. The shovel scraped against the soil. "Maybe the offspring of Dusks just won't have hearts. Can new life come from us?" He broke off his theories there, relinquishing the game of philosophy as easily as he had taken it up. "I don't have the answers either, Vexen. Maybe we'll only be able to provide a shelter for those who become Dusks later on. But if we don't begin to lay down the foundations now, we'll be unprepared in the times to come."

_But there is no time_, Vexen wanted to snap. Mention of the future was a sour clench in his thoughts. The secret held between himself and Xemnas was a sick weight, one that was not made better by the fact that it could not be kept hidden forever.

He turned away, keeping the truth fettered behind his teeth.

Lexaeus's voice filtered back to him, steady as a mountain, and just as unperceptive. "I can bring Aerlen back to her room if you want to go study early, Vexen."

"I'll behave," Aerlen piped up, a thin chirp of enthusiasm that was stronger than any promise the scientist had wrestled out of her in the past.

He left them there together, abandoning the makeshift garden to childish hope.

There was no one in the dining room for once, though several dishes had been forgotten on the table, left to be tidied up by Dusks. Xemnas was absent from his study, and his jacket and umbrella were missing from the hooks near the front door. Xigbar and Xaldin had vanished as well. The only sign of Zexion was a notecard pinned to the door of Vexen's bedroom; this one read, 'the Pit of Lost Socks.'

Vexen tore down the label with a sigh, and stretched out on his bed, eyeing the stacks of blank notebooks waiting on the dresser to be filled.

* * *

The expedition outdoors had one positive side effect: when given the incentive of afternoons at the garden, Aerlen was remarkably more obedient. She inquired often about going back, and even though she provided no additional information about her home, her demeanor had brightened considerably. Her eagerness to help Lexaeus was astounding - and nonsensical, to Vexen's mind. If she was a farmer's daughter, he would have expected her to be logically more concerned with the state of their ecology, but not once had she expressed wonder over their inorganic surroundings.

It wasn't until he observed Aerlen during an afternoon in the gardens that Vexen understood the root of her fascination with the other researcher.

Lexaeus's hands were deep in the soil. Over and over, he brought up fistfuls of dirt, allowing the grains to trickle in clumps through his fingers while he sifted out the larger chunks of asphalt and granite. Aerlen crouched beside him attentively, quick to snatch up pebbles that tumbled aside, and add them to the discard pile.

The fifth time this happened, Lexaeus settled his hand on top of hers. "You don't have to work if you don't want to, Aerlen."

"I like helping." The girl glanced up at him from underneath one long bang, a strip of brown that nearly obscured her left eye. Braig must have entrusted her with scissors at one point - but had chosen not to correct her efforts, because her ragged page-boy's haircut had become even more irregular over time, cropped short in back, with two long locks framing either side of her face. Vexen thought that they looked like the ears of a dog; when he had first shared this observation, he'd earned a bruise on his shin for his efforts.

If Lexaeus heard Vexen's doubting snort, he did not call attention to it. Instead, the man simply regarded Aerlen for several more moments before nodding, and scooping up another handful of soil.

The two worked in harmony together as Vexen tried to find a perch on one of the more stable sections of the wall. Nowhere seemed wide enough to sit comfortably. The first area that was secure enough not to crumble when he touched it only ended up shifting dangerously under his weight. Just as he thought he found a good spot, one of the flatter stones tilted precariously; for a moment, he feared the entire section would crumble apart and dump him on the ground.

He dimly overheard the girl when she opened her mouth again. "Are you a hero?"

Glancing over, he could see that the question had startled Lexaeus as well. The redhead's hands had spread wide; gravel was slipping out from the webbing of his fingers, unnoticed and unhindered. "Why do you say that?"

"Because," she started, and then flushed. "Because you saved me. That's what heroes do, right?"

The answer struck Vexen as almost childishly simplistic. Lexaeus seemed to take his time in answering, but the scientist could not tell if he shared the sentiment; when the other researcher spoke, his voice was slow and patient. "No. I'm just a man, Aerlen."

"But you're a good guy."

Lexaeus shook his head. "Good and evil are relative. All that exists is Darkness and Light. And now us. All heroes are ordinary, and all villains too. It's not so easy to judge," he continued. "Would you be willing to hurt someone if it was for the greater good?"

Vexen recognized the opening query; the issue of scientific morality was one that had been briefly touched upon by Ansem the Wise, but all six of his students had found more entertaining subjects to discuss. For Vexen, the answer had been simple. He had never doubted the worth of a final goal.

Aerlen, however, had never been taught at the Bastion. She reacted in the manner which Ansem had quoted as traditional, focusing on that latter half of the dilemma first. "It'd... it'd make it not right. If you did something bad on purpose while trying to help."

Lexaeus picked out a few stones from the ground, and then proceeded down the spiraling folds of logic. "So you would be willing to spare a wicked man's life, even knowing that he would go on to destroy your village?"

Troubled, the girl bit her lip. "I'd stop him."

"He would come back."

"I'd stop him _again_."

"And half the village would already be dead. Aerlen," Lexaeus added, implacably reasonable, his hands streaked with dirt, "that's why losing our hearts is not such a terrible thing. We can make those kinds of decisions without being held back any more. And," he continued softly, "even though we are no longer at risk for being lost to the Darkness, it doesn't mean we're creatures of Light either."

The girl hunched her shoulders together protectively. She did not challenge the redhead further; nor did she answer any more of the riddle, keeping her face turned away from Lexaeus as if doing so would erase the dilemma he had presented.

An awkward silence settled over the garden, broken only by the rustle of Lexaeus's patient hands as he sorted through the earth.

Finally, she spoke.

"But you saved me."

"I did," the man acknowledged. "But it isn't because I'm a good person. I'm sorry."

* * *

Aerlen was quiet for the rest of the day, pulling away from Lexaeus to huddle in another corner of the yard. When all of Vexen's attempts to wrestle answers out of the girl - or any words at all - failed, he gave up and ordered her to return to her room. She obeyed him meekly for once, Dusk in tow as she disappeared back into the warehouse.

The clock showed the hour as early evening; that fact alone meant little, since Vexen was not feeling hungry or tired, and the skies never changed. He did not see any of the other researchers walking about, but the door to the study had been left open, spilling light down the hall and noise along the stairs. He gravitated towards the room despite himself, curious if there was a new project to discuss yet.

Apparently, he was not the only one who felt the need for company. Zexion had set himself up in one of the overstuffed chairs, his head bent over a scrap of paper in his lap. Across the room, Xemnas was unrolling a fresh star chart on one of the long tables; a cup of coffee was pinning down a second scroll, accompanied by half a sandwich on a plate.

But it was Xaldin and Xigbar who were taking up the most space. The Dusks had learned to imitate the two of them better, exhibiting a stronger understanding of instructions. Several had assembled to search through the city on their own, composing several small units that would cart back routine supplies and food. They seemed to navigate the streets without need of light, or protection, or even guidance. While Xaldin and Xigbar still attended the creatures on occasion, many times Vexen caught them simply waiting on the second floor balcony for supplies to return.

This freed them both up for mischief.

Books were swooping through the study room like lazy birds, migrating from Xaldin's shelves to where Xigbar slouched by the window. Deft touches of wind wrapped themselves in cross-circuits of current. The gusts were handled with an expert's level of control, able to carry the weight of a hardcover text without doing more than ruffling Zexion's hair as they passed.

By the look of it, Xigbar and Xaldin were building a pyramid in midair. The gunner looked almost bored as he kept the books suspended, but he was using both hands to do so, palms upturned to better channel the gravitational spell. There were easily twenty volumes being used; the tower was halfway to the ceiling.

Vexen wedged himself neatly through the door and around one of the chairs, sidestepping through the chaos. A fat wad of paper lay crumpled at the foot of the table, stained with ink - one of Xemnas's ruined discards, he assumed. Without assistants, each of the researchers had to make their own copies of any maps or diagrams, and while Dusks were available to perform such tasks, Xemnas's indifference to the creatures remained in full force. One of them wriggled attentively at the man's elbow, completely ignored.

Another book floated past, bobbing gently as a soap bubble in spring.

Vexen snapped out his hand as it did, blocking the book's path with the flat of his palm. When gentle pressure did not succeed to move the scientist aside, Xaldin finally spoke up with a decidedly bored sigh. "We're testing our control of levitation incants, Vexen. What better place than here?"

Vexen's glare did not even make a dent in the lancer's blase expression. "This is a _library_."

"It's a storage room for _paper_," came Xaldin's retort. "Everything's blank."

The book struggled against Vexen's hand for another forceful moment before suddenly ducking underneath, zipping through the air and sliding into an upper tier of the pyramid.

Dismissing the trick, Vexen leaned over Zexion's chair, curious as to what occupied the younger researcher's attention so thoroughly that he had not yet glanced away from it. By the look of it, Zexion was sorting through a grid of random letters, connecting them to build coherent words. Vexen immediately picked out several potential answers from the alphabetical mash: 'cat,' 'fork,' and 'open,' though he had to double back in a slightly illegal turn to form the last.

"How is it?" he asked by way of greeting, observing the thick knot of lines that marked off numerous word chains.

"Lexaeus needs to get more random with his placements," Zexion informed him. "I've already found 'vociferous' _twice_. Oh look," he interrupted himself, looping his pen carefully down the page, "here's 'liquescent.'"

Another book brushed past Vexen's arm; he waved it irritably away, and Zexion's easy mastery of the puzzle with it. "I've been going outside for the last few days," he hissed, uncertain if tact was better when Xigbar and Xaldin were also present in the room. "Now, what did you want me to see out there?"

"I forgot." When Vexen made a scoff of disgust, the younger man lifted his eyebrows in shameless nonchalance. "You took so long, climbing out of your hole. Don't blame me for finding something else to do in the meantime."

Stung, Vexen opened his mouth to reply - and broke off into a yelp as a book collided roughly into his shoulder.

From across the room, Xaldin rasped a toneless, "Oops."

A few seconds later, a third book struck Vexen, clipping the back of his skull. The pain drew a hiss from his lips; Vexen spun around quickly, only to nearly slam into a fourth volume. He made a wild grab for the book, seizing it by the spine. It tugged back against his grip like a rebellious kite, Xaldin's magic keeping it obstinately in place. A fifth started to sneak past; he struck out with his other hand, knocking it to the ground. Pages fluttered apart like a breathless harlot.

From his chair, Zexion barked a sudden cry of surprise and dove for the fallen book.

All at once, the pyramid of hardcovers collapsed; they rushed forward in a mass of fluttering chapters, swarming around Vexen's body like nightmarish moths. Through the whirlwind of pages, Vexen could see glimpses of the other researchers: Xaldin's eyes were narrowed in smug concentration, while Xemnas had one hand over his mouth, barely concealing a smile.

"Stop!"

Zexion's shout froze everything all in place. At first, Vexen wondered if he had been struck as a casualty; the youngest researcher yelled only on rare occasions, usually requiring blood to be shed first. But Zexion was not clutching himself in pain - he was not even bruised, though he was bowed over the fallen book protectively.

As they watched, the man rose to his feet, cradling the book as if it were made out of glass.

"Words," Zexion marveled aloud. His face was rapt upon the pages. "_Real_ words. Look!"

Xemnas stumbled out of his chair in his haste to see, one foot tangling with the wooden legs. After a quick glance at the text in Zexion's hands, the pale-haired man headed directly to the shelves, brusquely opening and then discarding the first volume he came across. "What do they say?"

"It's..." Slim fingers turned the pages, one by one at first, and then in clumps, skipping entire chapters in an instant. "It's a history of the irrigation ditches of a place called Dorter Trade City. In Lesalia."

Baffled, Vexen snatched for the closest book; this time, the magic relented to him, allowing him to pluck it from the air. "'Welcome to Goug Machine City'," he read aloud. "'Your entire family will enjoy the sights and sounds of our distinctive' - this is a _visitor's_ brochure," he announced abruptly, scanning through the next few paragraphs, only to discover several bread recipes and a listing of sausage merchants local to the region.

"'The progress of what we are now calling the Fifty Years War left its mark in nobles and commoners alike,'" recited Xemnas from across the room. He lowered his own book, drumming his fingers thoughtfully on the pages. "Zexion's right. These _are_ real words. But I've never heard of these places. Where did you get the things from?"

But no one could recall seeing the volumes arrive. According to Xaldin and Xigbar, the books were already there when they had entered the study; neither of them had bothered to search though what they expected to be blank.

The mystery haunted them all through the rest of the evening, urged on by Zexion's demands to reinventory the warehouse. They splintered off in small groups, with Lexaeus and Zexion taking the first floor, while Xigbar paired off with Xaldin to survey the higher levels.

Vexen, alone, found himself debating the use of interrogating Aerlen again - or tracking down wherever Xemnas had run off to on his own - and finally decided to do nothing. Instead, he waited in the study and traced his fingers over the drying ink of Xemnas's maps, while footsteps clomped up and down the stairways along the hall.

* * *

They agreed to reconvene the next day in the dining room to compare notes, matching up schedules for breakfast to approximately the same hour. Of all the meals, that one held the highest chance for group attendance; all of them woke up at varying times, but inevitably brought their research with them to work on between pieces of toast.

None of the students were particularly inclined to cooking fancy meals. For most of their educational years, they had become accustomed to ordering down to the kitchens if they were hungry, sporadically wandering in and out of communal breakfasts, lunches and occasional suppers. Castle fare had always consisted of light foods for breakfast - customarily drinks - and a larger lunch pre-noon. Dinner came in the early evening, and anyone unlucky enough to be peckish at night had to forage on their own.

Bereft of the Bastion's kitchens, the six of them reverted to the dining habits of their youth: breads, jams, basic sandwiches, and whatever canned foods were around. Trash was emptied, usually by hand, when it was discovered that someone had instructed the Dusks to use Vexen's beds as a rubbish bin.

The greatest advancement of the warehouse had been the installation of the sink and stove. At first they had all clustered around Xaldin as he glowered and tinkered with the wiring; Zexion and Xigbar had offered all manner of advice, poking at the stove whenever Xaldin's back was turned. Then, when a spark had ignited a stray pocket of fuel and led to a small fireball billowing out of the oven's mouth, Xaldin had firmly declared the mechanics off-limits to anyone but himself.

The restriction was relatively moot. No one was trained in more than the most rudimentary of culinary arts, save for Zexion, who took to the task with clear distaste. It led him to spend more time with Lexaeus, which seemed to suit them both; they had always cooperated well on classroom projects, with similar enough temperaments and a mutual distaste for trouble.

But even Zexion's crude makeshift knowledge of stews and poorhouse-rice could not keep the bland routine of their meals from beginning to grate. Complaints were on everyone's lips - everyone but Xemnas, and he was the exception more often than any rule. While several of the scouting trips brought back a variety of foods, none of them were prepared; raw vegetables could be boiled or fried, but their best efforts were a far cry from the feasts of the Bastion. Meats were easily burned, and baked goods existed on a level harder than any classroom task.

By the time that Vexen arrived - yawning, his head swimming with trivia of a world he had never seen - Xigbar had trapped a Dusk in a corner of the dining room. The gunner resembled a grizzled alley cat as he crouched on his haunches and poked at the white-clad being.

"_Breakfast_," the gunner enunciated clearly, rocking from side to side as his prey continued to sway, seeking an escape. "You understand, don't you? _Food_."

Xaldin was watching the spectacle with some amusement. "You're disturbing my Dusks, Braig."

"I'm thinking about what they might taste like treated with a light clam glaze and lemon," the gunner retorted in his direction, keeping the feverishness of his gaze upon the unfortunate creature.

He was silenced by one of Xaldin's boots. It tumbled through the air in a lazy arc; at first it appeared as if the shoe would miss the gunner, and then a flick of Xaldin's fingers sent the missile in a vicious, curving flight towards Xigbar's face.

When Xigbar batted it away with a curse, the lancer pulled off his second boot and brandished it warningly.

At the threat, Xigbar settled back into his crouch. "You know," he began amiably, wrists dangling across his knees, "without proper nutrients, we're gonna die. Just ask Elaeus. He _knows_ this stuff."

"You're going to die anyway if you try to take a bite out of my Dragoons."

"Is that what you're calling them? Well, my... my _Snipers_ will beat your Dragoons. Just watch."

Refusing to rise to the bait, Xaldin merely smirked. "Look," he pointed out lazily, as the Dusk took advantage of Xigbar's distraction to escape, "you've scared it away. Now what will you eat?"

"That's enough," Xemnas called out, but he was smiling. "Has anyone found anything new in the warehouse yet?"

All the Dusks played scarce that day - a fact which Vexen noted sourly, since he could not find any to watch Aerlen so he would not have to. He passed the hours by simply pretending that the girl was not in the room with him, and working on the calculations in his notebooks.

He assumed the issue of food was a brief entertainment for the gunner, but the next morning when the researchers shuffled in for breakfast, they discovered an entire banquet spread across the table. Freshly steamed vegetables competed with a haunch of roasted beef; an entire loaf of moist bread was stacked in neat slices on one plate, filling the air with the smell of walnuts and banana. There were several pots of honey and cream. A bowl of ripe berries sat docilely beside them, looking as if they had been picked only minutes before.

"_I_ certainly didn't do it," Zexion claimed, looking sharply in Lexaeus's direction. "And no one else was in here before me, except him."

When the group turned their attention towards the redhead next, he held up empty hands. "I came in to find this already here."

Xigbar made a scoffing noise under his breath, neatly tearing off a scrap of meat from the largest plate. His first bite was careful; then, when he did not die instantly, he took a second. "Doesn't _taste_ like Heartless," he commented, wolfing down the rest of the snack. "Not that I'd be an expert. Where'd this stuff come from, anyway? One of the city apartments? I've never seen anything like this in the freezers - "

Boots struck the floor in a harsh tempo as Xemnas strode forward; he brushed past the other researchers as if they did not exist, directly towards the small knot of Dusks clustered in the adjacent kitchen. He stared at them fixedly for several moments before stating, very carefully, "Where did you get the food from?"

The creatures hesitated at first, and then all began to murmur.

_The town of silent hills..._

_The village of white ships and fresh water..._

_The city on the great plain, with magical technology..._

"Enough," cut through the forest of whispers, and then Xemnas was drawing a deep breath. His chin had lifted like a stag in challenge, eyes widened in a manner that Vexen instantly recognized. Inspiration had possessed the man, leaping past initial theories into advanced conclusions without waiting for anyone else to catch up. "Show me."

The white creature quivered, and then obeyed.

Darkness blossomed in the dining room air, spreading like a drop of ink - a trembling blot that yawned wider and wider in front of the Dusks, their bodies rustling as they swayed in place. At first, Vexen thought they had summoned a Heartless portal; such phenomenon had been measured before in the Bastion, doorways that remained mysteries despite their best attempts to reproduce one. The Shadows used them for transport between sealed rooms, and - it was assumed - world to world.

But this one crackled with a different sort of energy, mixing with Darkness and remaining separate from it as well. Black thorns blossomed out of the swirling mass, and then wrapped around it in a wheel of ivy, pulsing in silent threat. The effect was hypnotic, familiar and foreign all at once; Vexen found himself fascinated by the presence of what seemed like pure nothingness, as if the Dusks had snatched a piece of the void itself to present for their attention.

_The nearest town, Master_, the Dusk supplied helpfully as the researchers flocked to study the black oval in the air. _This doorway leads to Twilight._

None of them approached the gap too closely, hovering several yards away instead, as though the portal oozed some unseen radiation that could corrupt them a second time with Darkness. Of the six, Xemnas dared to move the closest; Vexen stayed a healthy distance back.

It was Xigbar who made the first, awkward conclusion aloud. "You mean the doors aren't only useable by Heartless? Any Dusk can use them?"

"Anyone safe from the Darkness." Xemnas took another step forward, one hand extended towards the portal as if he was afraid it would vanish at any moment. "Normal people might be able to travel through as well - if they were properly skilled. Can any of you make these things?" This demand was back towards the Dusk; Xemnas's voice rang with the same analytical starkness as he would discuss a questionable laboratory slide.

It shivered under his attention. _Yes._

This answer seemed to ease some of the man's concerns. Lowering his hand, he made a loose shrug, the ravenous intensity leaving his face and allowing it to lapse back into bemusement. "Well, then. Which one of us should try it?"

"I'll do it."

They turned together, five members of the group looking towards the sixth. Vexen was not surprised at the identity of the researcher who had volunteered. None of them were, judging from the resignation that he glimpsed on everyone's face; the answer had been as predictable as rain during a hurricane.

Xigbar held his composure at first, managing to keep a smug tilt to his mouth. Then, when confronted with all of their stares, he sobered. "Xaldin and I are the best at checking out the unexplored - everyone knows that," he pointed out. "And both of us shouldn't go, just in case there are problems getting back."

"Which is why," Xaldin interrupted roughly, "_I_ should be the one to scout through the portal."

"Except the Dusks listen to _you_ more than me," the gunner defended, a firm retort coupled with a finger waggled in Xaldin's direction. "We can't risk you getting lost yet. So I'll go."

"You - "

"And that's _it_."

Xaldin was silent for a moment before turning and pushing out of the room.

They heard his footsteps several minutes later, while the researchers were in collective disagreement about which samples Xigbar should collect while he was out. Lexaeus had requested biological slices of soil and wildlife. Xemnas's suggestion was to look for the highest concentration of sentient civilization, and then for any authority figures in that region who might have some degree of power.

A wad of dark fabric hurtled through the air; it struck Xigbar's chest with a whuff of canvas and jingling buckles. Xaldin stalked back into the dining room immediately afterwards, sparing the other man only a brief glance. "Wear something to conceal yourself if you go out," he growled. "We don't know what our Heartless may have been doing. If Xehanort's is still out there, then someone might have seen _your_ face too."

The gunner untangled himself from the mass of weatherbeaten fabric, turning the jacket around until it was right-side up. "Lending me your coat?" he observed wryly. "If I didn't know better, Dilan, I'd think you were trying to say that purple just isn't my color."

Xaldin rolled his eyes. "Mine has a _hood_, Xigbar. One that can actually hide your face." A final flick of his hand in the gunner's direction for emphasis, and then Xaldin was sliding over to a chair, flopping down and hooking his leg over the side. "I want it returned in good condition. So don't die."

"I look _so_ much better than you in this," Xigbar drawled back, shrugging on the jacket. The cuffs came down to the backs of his hands, lapping at the knuckles. He took his time with the fastenings, pulling up the zipper in careful inches, and then giving it a final tug to make certain it was snug.

Only then did Xemnas approach. "Are you ready?" he asked, very quietly, his eyes lowered, speaking to Xigbar and Xigbar alone.

Solemnity had no place when the gunner was concerned. Xigbar only smirked, giving a jaunty salute to the room as he stepped towards the portal, and then was gone.


	7. Chapter 7

They divided up the duty of waiting into shifts, fumbling through names and hours. With only five of them left behind, it was impossible to form neat pairs. A set of three-and-two resulted in twelve hour blocks to remain alert throughout, and no one could agree on who should be coupled with whom. The complex rotation of partners that Zexion concocted was discarded when no one else was able to understand it. Vexen's suggestion - that each of them keep solo watch - won no support either, and overlapping eight-hour blocks produced insufficient results.

Arguing over the best way to parcel out responsibilities of time occupied them for most of a day; then they all promptly ignored the designations, clustering in the dining hall in one big lump. No one suggested leaving. They slept on the chairs, pillowing their heads on the table and occasionally under it. Meals were assembled at random, scavenged from the contents of the pantry. The Dusks slunk about in silent obedience, fetching dishes without being told, cleaning off the remains of half-eaten suppers.

Vexen only stepped out of the dining room when necessity demanded: to wash, change his clothes, and handle the other petty details of being alive. Vigilance blurred the hours. He slept when he was too weary to keep watching the gate, ate whenever he was hungry - picking food off random plates, searching among the leftovers - and arranged his limbs as best he could to get comfortable on the chairs, waking up from the short naps with muscle aches and a feeling of being bruised all over.

Lexaeus hauled a light couch out of one of the rooms, but it was too narrow for most of them to sleep on easily, and Zexion soon laid claim to it. The youngest researcher tucked up his legs on the stunted cushions and spent most of his conscious hours prone, listening to the theories bandied about at the dining table while offering occasional suggestions of his own.

Xemnas's fascination with the gateway was predictable. No one seemed surprised when the man turned one of the dining chairs around to face the shimmering void, studying it head-on. Lacking any other furnishings in the dining hall, he then added several more chairs, dragging them over to serve as side-tables for his notes.

The next time Vexen woke up, Xemnas's army of chairs was closer to the portal.

The day after that, and they had crept even closer.

But it was Xaldin who kept watch the most intently out of all of them, sketching out diagrams on the table, doodling thorn-whip tendrils that burrowed across the paper and slid between the plates. Thick hatch-marks coated the white tablecloth, methodically filling up outlines that twisted around themselves like snakes, threatening to swallow entire teasets whole.

Fascinated despite himself, Vexen began to watch the slow crawl of the lancer's patience across the dining table.

The Dusk who had originally opened the gateway stayed tethered to its post. Zexion added his own graffiti to the tablecloth over the course of several days, marking notations down at random as he wandered about the room. Several letters dotted the vines like strange berries, eloquently scripted inside additional formulas that refused to logically match up.

All too soon, the pattern crossed from one side of the table to the other and back again, suspending plates and silverware in a sea of spiked ink. It mirrored the dull pulse of the gateway. Vexen, waking up one day and groaning at the tightness of his neck muscles, was forced to blink twice before he could focus properly on which shapes were black, and which were white.

Xigbar did not return.

Fighting off the urge one afternoon to starting throwing things into the portal to see how it would respond - the contents of Xemnas's desk first, followed next by the man himself - Vexen turned to Xaldin as a form of distraction.

The lancer was midway through a stack of waffled dough and syrup when Vexen approached. He picked at small slices with his fork while paging through one of the volumes from the library; breakfast had been in process since ten o'clock that morning, and Xaldin had chosen to begin his late.

Vexen dropped himself into a chair, careful not to choose one directly adjacent to the other man. The last thing he needed was a dispute over personal space. "Have you learned anything more about Goug Machine City?"

Xaldin regarded him with what bordered on suspicion before returning to the book. "One," he began, giving his fork a shake as he set it aside on the plate, "they have underdeveloped engineering. Two, they could stand to use some improvements with their drainage systems - and three, that the best sausage maker in the city would be the Marche family, whose craft dates back a veritable… twenty-six years." He made a face as he finished, one hand fussing with a napkin as he studied the page. "Not all of the recovered books are from Ivalice. There's another stack from regions that might be on the same continent, might not. Even Zexion isn't sure yet."

"'The Biography of Alessa Gilles - '" Vexen read aloud, squinting at the stained, block-print letters that were visible around Xaldin's broad fingers. He lost the remainder of the word underneath the lancer's palm, but a quick glance at the other books waiting on the table proved Xaldin's observation. Many of the covers were wildly different, with a variety of bindings and inks. Some of them referenced cities whose names were unfamiliar; others featured engravings of strange animals, buildings, and plants.

Xaldin waved him away. When the gesture did not work, the lancer simply picked up his book and plate, walking down the length of the table to resume his meal in peace.

The sudden burst of energy from the portal surprised them all. It arrived that evening, or what served as night; the majority of them were awake, though they each had broken off to their own personal studies. Vexen was examining the detritus that had gathered at the bottom of his teacup - remains of various leaves he had thrown into the strainer in hopes that the results would be palatable - when the doorway pulsed, emitting a streak of light that arced through the room and turned vague shadows into hard lines. Energy radiated in the form of dozens of thorned vines that buried themselves into their surroundings, mooring themselves by force into the floor and walls. The portal leaked enough power to turned Vexen's stomach queasy, enough darkness to set the air humming like a bell - and then, almost as an afterthought, it spat out a man.

Xaldin's bark of surprise woke the room from its communal drowse. Zexion startled, and nearly fell off the couch.

But none of them moved forward in greeting, and Xigbar stayed poised at the doorway with equal caution, switching his gaze from face to face as if waiting for the flesh to dissolve off their bones and reveal Heartless inside.

"It's me," he said carefully, after a long silence. "I'm fine."

* * *

"They asked who I was."

The lights in the dining hall were all turned up; the doorway to the hall had been propped open, and Xigbar's report was in full session. The researchers had gathered around him attentively as he perched on the back of his chair, bird-like, defying the possibility that it might tip over underneath his weight.

Xigbar had asked for coffee first, and then barely finished the cup before launching into a detailed story of the town beyond the gate.

"I said I was a traveling performer - a juggler," he added, levitating a spoon off the table with a flick of his wrist. He lobbed it towards the ceiling with only a gesture. It spun end over end during its ascension, gradually slowing until it ended up suspended in midair, slowly rotating like a silver pinwheel. "They laughed and pointed me to the baker's shop for lunch. _Amazing_ cheese rolls there. Like... like eating pure cream and butter, only with bread, and the cheese was so tangy, it must have been made right there in town - "

"Enough about food," Xemnas ordered, but he was smiling, and no amount of false solemnity could hide it. "Or else you'll make us jealous."

" - And the _sunlight_." Pausing in his ramble only to draw in a long, satisfied breath, Xigbar stretched both hands towards the ceiling, catching the spoon as it broke from its null-gravity spell. He skimmed it back across the table, where it skipped twice before landing in a bowl of gravy. "After all this time in the dark, I thought I'd go blind to see it again. Like the entire _sky_ was bleeding gold. Aren't people supposed to go crazy without enough sun?" he interrupted himself, flowing from statement to question without pause. "I mean, I could've sworn there were studies on that kinda thing. Proofs."

"We already _have_," Vexen shot back tartly. His teacup sloshed lukewarm water on his hand as his attention slid; righting it swiftly, he set the cup down on its saucer with a hard _clink_. "Keep talking. What is this place called? Is it a part of this Ivalice kingdom?"

The gunner paused, shutting his mouth abruptly, and then giving a swift shake of his head. "They've never heard of Lesalia - or any fifty-year war. I don't think," he continued, leaning forward from his perch to stare directly into Xemnas's eyes, "that any of them have ever seen battle before. They're too trusting."

There was silence for a time; then, when Xemnas turned away, folding his arms in an oblique refusal, Xigbar slouched back against his chair. Two wolves might have passed one another in the forest the same way: eyes averted, faces refusing to turn away from the danger.

Instead of confrontation, Xigbar chose to scratch his shin, deliberately engaged in the act of propping his knees against the table. He tilted his chair back in a long stretch that seemed anything but casual. "I saw plenty of Dusks there too. Most of 'em hid, but it's like... I could _tell_ they were there. Seemed like everywhere I went, they followed."

"Hostile?" Lexaeus.

"No. Xemnas," the gunner pressed again, though he was carefully toying with the lacings of one boot, "they would be easy fodder, if we needed. Both the town and the Dusks. They wouldn't even need to know we were in control."

The target of his wheedling did not look up. "I'll think about it."

News of the other world seized the attention of all six researchers; talk was made of visiting Twilight, and the other cities which the Dusks had hinted at. Time reoriented itself around the new discoveries which Xigbar brought back. Xemnas grumbled for a week when he discovered that the hour he had chosen for their city-clocks was at odds with that of Twilight Town. Zexion reset half the timepieces before anyone could decide which zone to settle on, indifferent to their complaints. Vexen's own workrooms existed in Twilight Time and City Time simultaneously; he scowled at the different faceplates, unwilling to sort out whatever riddle Zexion was presenting this time.

Aerlen protested when he dumped all the clocks on her bed. Then she threw one at him.

_Subject's aim has demonstrated noticeable signs of Xigbar's training_, he wrote down later in his ledgers that night, nursing the bruise on the back of his hand beneath a coating of ice.

Xigbar's evaluation of the town's worth was swiftly proven accurate. Twilight offered human assistance in the form of shopkeepers and clerks; rather than waste time picking through the City looking for supplies, Xigbar went directly to the inhabitants themselves. All the packages in Twilight were written in a comprehensible tongue. No guesswork was required in order to decipher an ingredient list, and breakfasts were filled with the sounds of wrappers passed back and forth, each researcher intent on memorizing the fresh text as a clue to the new world.

They bartered with the leftovers from the city, trading in the possessions harvested from the abandoned stores and homes. The strange coinage that Xigbar returned with was unfamiliar; _munny_, he said the villagers called it, dropping sachets that clinked with the heavy coins onto the dining room table.

Zexion emptied one bag out simply to organize the contents by size. Stacks of multicolored discs lined up like a rampart between two plates; Xigbar claimed a handful of coins for his own use, returning with leftovers from a variety of cafes, and wads of assorted receipts for Zexion to fold into paper animals.

After one morning spent with Lexaeus methodically taking measurements of everyone's feet - _just in case anyone's soles had changed overnight_, the man had rumbled, and then laughed as the rest of them groaned at the joke - Xigbar came back bearing cartons of new boots, along with an inked poster that had been crumpled into quarters.

As Vexen gingerly unfolded the announcement, the gunner jerked a thumb towards his chest.

"Take a good look at this," he declared proudly. "You're talking to the man who'll become this year's Struggle Master. Fame, reputation, and above all," he emphasized, spinning on one heel to strike a marksman's pose, fingers spread and arched at his hips, "a prize I'm _sure_ we can pawn off for cash."

Vexen lifted an imperious brow as he scanned across the garish print, studying the rules of the competition. "You mean, I'm speaking to a fool who will bring down unnecessary attention upon himself. Or do you have an explanation in mind for when Xemnas asks why your face is splashed all over town?"

Xigbar opened his mouth; then he closed it, and pursed his lips. "I don't _see_," he began slowly, with exaggerated patience, "why we don't simply claim Twilight for ourselves? It would be a clear advantage." He began to tick the factors off on his fingers. "Additional point of land, potential allies residing in the area, resources that are managed by _intelligent human beings_ - not Dusks," and Xigbar's eyebrows rounded into exaggerated, quirked arcs. "As much as I like the wiggly little guys, they creep me out. But these people are humans. How can we go wrong?"

The automatic urge to contradict Xigbar spurred Vexen on. His mind spat forth half a dozen ritual beginnings to insult the other man. Each of them refused to complete themselves. The logic was flawless even by Vexen's sensibilities, and that alone made it awkward.

"I don't know," he was forced to reply lamely, wits empty of any retort. "But until we've all had a chance to explore this new world, I would advise against any overt actions."

"Sure, sure." Xigbar made a dismissive wave of his hand as he scooped up his pair of boots off the table. The heels knocked against his back as he strode away, dangling them off his shoulder. "You say that now, but I know you're just _dying_ to get out of here too."

* * *

Three days passed, and Vexen found himself unable to ignore Xigbar's suggestion. While normally he was proficient at automatically dismissing the gunner's ideas, this one kept him restless, nibbling at his wan sense of doubt. The town demonstrated several strong points in its favor. Twilight had a stable environment. Twilight had sentient inhabitants. Twilight had sunlight, and a normal time cycle, and a _world_ that was not decaying into nothingness.

He broke the suggestion after a week, unable to keep the words from going around and around like caged rats in his mind, wearing smooth tracks that went nowhere. Mealtimes were poor opportunities to pull Xemnas aside; the worst way to ensure privacy among the researchers was to ask for it, and since the appearance of the portal, Xemnas had not made time with him to discuss the progression of the city's rot.

He waited until after breakfast, using the pretense of asset inventory to delay the other man. Xigbar's list of trade goods was growing larger every day. Twilight's residents had expressed an interest in the variety of clothing styles that had come out of the city's shops, and textiles were safer than food for Xigbar to transport. Bartering required someone to keep track of market prices, and though Vexen disdained such work, so did the rest of the researchers. None of them would linger, lest they be volunteered to help.

Xemnas, for his part, accepted the request with a shrug. His plate had been barely touched. In contrast, his cup had already been refilled several times with coffee rather than tea leaves, and there was a dark ring on the saucer where a few drops had sloshed over.

As they sorted through receipts, Vexen finally spoke up.

"Have you thought about leaving here?" When there came no reply, he cleared his throat more forcefully, aligning the sheets of paper in his hands into a single neat stack. "There's plenty of time to move to this new town, Xemnas. We could escape."

Xemnas reached past him for the sugar cubes. The curtains had been pulled back from the far side of the room; full-length windows had appeared there overnight, and from a certain angle, the streets outside seemed much further away than a normal second-floor drop. "We can't." His answer was cold, and absolute. "If there's a disease that's killing this world, it may take us too, no matter how far we run. If this world is dying because it has no heart," he added blandly, spooning an extra lump of sugar into his coffee and stirring it with a lazy rotation of his wrist, "then we'll share the same fate. No amount of cowardice can save us then."

"But - "

"But if we have to," Xemnas confirmed quietly, his eyes fastened upon the portal which hummed with silent promise in the corner, "if it comes to that, we will run."

* * *

The migration of business from the dining room back to the study happened gradually. Xigbar opened his portals in either location, depending on his mood; the doorways closed on their own without his attention, or when a Dusk had not been specifically ordered to maintain the gate. Even though the library offered less space, all of them had spent more than enough time cooped up in a single room. It was with relief that Vexen accepted Zexion's offer to review several books in the study room, and his bones wheezed gratefully as he sank into the softer chairs, leaning back into their comfort.

They split the bulk of their work between both rooms equally, branching off into their own corners for smaller discussions. With a stable route to Twilight mastered - Xigbar had reported learning how to open a gate to anywhere in the town, without needing Dusk assistance - the next possibility that lay on the horizon was the subject of other worlds.

What they had learned from the books could be tallied into no less than six different realms, each unique and separate from Twilight. The patchwork nature of the City implied even more. And if the Dusks had been able to visit half the places they whispered broken hints about, the potential number of worlds could take years to plot.

Radiant Garden lay somewhere on that list as well.

Star-charts were pulled out again, unrolled across the library tables as each of the researchers tried to estimate how to connect the realms together. Folders were placed and rearranged in varying configurations. If the pathways were ones created by Darkness, then only worlds which had felt the touch of the Heartless would be accessible - and there was no guarantee that any of those places had not been completely destroyed yet.

But before any of them could decide which direction to research next, Xigbar returned home bleeding.

They had all grown complacent with the presence of Twilight, taking it for granted that the portals would not vomit monsters into their rooms, or go wild with untamed power. Dusks and Heartless alike used the doorways indiscriminately. No one expected more.

Vexen had just finished drawing a long arrow of red across the papers - associating the Ivalice folder with Lionel, and then with Ordalia - when the library air crackled. Darkness blossomed up from the ground to form the familiar oval gate, and Xigbar stumbled out of the portal like a man dying.

His coat had been ripped open in long, jagged gashes. The leather was coated with a mixture of fluid and dust from the road, and the hand which was pressed to his skull was so dark with crusted blood that it seemed to shed flakes of soot and ash. Vomit had splashed over the toe of one boot. A smear of dirt coated the left side of Xigbar's jacket all the way from ankle to shoulder - the same markings of a man who had been flung against the ground, and then _dragged_.

The man swayed on his feet, and then stumbled forward, collapsing in the nearest chair he bumped into.

Zexion found his voice first. "What happened?"

Xigbar's lips twisted in a sardonic wince.

Slowly, the gunner lowered the hand that had been protecting his face. His fingers trembled. Unbound strands of his hair slid back over his shoulders as he straightened up; the locks had been gummed into fat clumps from drying blood.

Gore coated Xigbar's cheek. Clots massed like small tumors. The extent of the damage was impossible to assess when everything seemed ruined, pouring out of the dark pit of an eyesocket that had been brutally savaged.

Pain broke the edges of his voice.

"His light bit me."

Through their scattered questions, Xigbar spoke louder, snapping off the facts with a knight's dignity. "There was a man in town. A traveler. I thought he was like anyone else - just some stranger passing through, didn't even look twice at him. He had," the gunner continued ruthlessly, "a damned _Keyblade_. A Keyblade! I thought only that king mouse had one!"

Hypnotized by the twisted lump of Xigbar's eyelid, Vexen forced a brief, disbelieving laugh. "Impossible - "

He was cut off with a snarl. "That guy said that he thought it was funny, a person like me enjoying the town. He said he'd make sure I would never be able to again. Xemnas!" The name slashed out like a whip, cutting through the air and leaving a harsh echo behind. "He said that he recognized what I was. That he had seen something like me before - something that wasn't a Heartless."

Xemnas's face remained turned away from the group. His hands were polite upon his book, fingers poised in shallow arches on the pages. Of all the researchers, he was the only one who had not abandoned his work at Xigbar's appearance; his words, when they came back, were extraordinarily mild. "Which is what?"

Xigbar scowled. "An abomination. A _mistake_. The guy laughed, said he didn't even need to bother destroying me - that I'd vanish on my own soon enough. That we're nobodies, with no right to exist. Is it true?" His challenge remained in Xemnas's direction, a rare moment of cold authority shining through as the oldest of Ansem's apprentices made his demands known. "Will we just disappear?"

Xemnas was silent for two seconds before admitting, "Yes."

The revelation drew outcry from the entire room. Zexion broke into a series of rapid questions, each faster than the last, his voice skipping from one theory to another in seamless transitions that jettisoned meaning in favor of speed. Xaldin clenched his fist with a growl.

Xigbar's laugh was a rough slap on the air. "So," he announced, his voice dripping with bitter amusement, "not even the Light wants us back. Doesn't that just figure." He peeled his gloves off with overblown care, finger by finger, left to right. They made a wet smack when they hit the table. "I'm going to find that guy again. I'm going to _kill_ him. I'm - " He winced as he tried to stand, dropping back into the chair, and then cringing. "Going to do all've that. Just as soon as I'm feeling better."

Reminder of the attack doused all of their reactions. Vexen found his temper dispelled as quickly as a candle snuffed, distracted instead by the catalogue of injuries that the gunner displayed. The worst of the gore had dried in a fan of blotted lines down Xigbar's cheek, a spray that looked as if it had been centralized from the eye socket. The skin along the right side of his jaw had been scraped raw. The mottled purple of a fresh bruise was already in full blossom near his temple, seeping into his hairline.

As Xigbar bent to unlace his boots, each movement exaggerated from pain, Vexen caught side of a longer gash which stretched diagonally across the man's spine. His jacket was stuck to his body in clumps; leather and blood had formed an ugly seal, one that stank of dead flesh.

Zexion only shook his head, picking up the nearest napkin and soaking it unceremoniously in his water glass. "Would it kill you to stop moving? You've lost a lot of blood."

"He'll lose more," Lexaeus announced calmly, peeling Xigbar's palm away from the wound despite the man's best efforts to keep his chin tucked down in a bird's hunch. After coaxing the fingers free, the redhead cupped his hands around Xigbar's jaw, trying to tilt the gunner's head towards the lamps. "Unless someone remembers how to regenerate damaged body parts. Did you ever get around to reading that manual, Zexion?"

"I barely understood half the chapters," the youngest researcher protested. "Besides, I don't know how Dusk bodies function. Healing spells might kill us now. For all we know," he pointed out, as practical as if he were describing the dimensions of a circle, "a simple Cure incantation might cause Xigbar to _explode_."

"No great loss," was Vexen's instant parry.

Lexaeus sighed, accepting the damp cloth from Zexion and clamping it firmly on Xigbar's face, even as the gunner began to struggle at the turn in discussion. "Six apprentices to a talented mage-king, and none of us even learned more than a stop-bleed spell. I'm ashamed of our incompetence."

Rankling at the words, Vexen drew himself upright. Memory of pride stung as effectively as the real thing; at least, that was how he found himself justifying his next response. "We had _doctors_ who were trained in such business. It's not our fault."

This fact did not seem to impress Lexaeus. The taller man leveled an unflinching stare across the table; the napkin seeped blotches of lukewarm pink down his wrist. "My brother knew more about patching up a tavern brawl than any of us, Vexen - and he was only _eight_."

"Then get your _brother_ here, Elaeus - "

The hard slap of a book on the table broke the argument; both of them jumped at the noise. "You're all acting," Xemnas interjected smoothly, his hand flat upon the cover of _The Durai Papers_, "like children. He's not going to die. We're _not_," he added more firmly, over the sound of Xigbar's muffled protests, "going to experiment with anything risky. Yet. Now take a deep breath, and remember that you are capable of controlling yourselves now. Not that," the man continued mildly, studying his fingernails with a nobleman's ennui, "it isn't _fascinating_ watching you all imitate emotions you technically no longer have, but Xigbar _is_ still bleeding on the carpet."

In the sudden silence, Zexion coughed.

No one spoke of Xigbar's assailant after that - not about the Keyblade, about the gateway, or their own potential fates. One of Lexaeus's Dusks was sent to fetch a medical kit from the storage rooms; Zexion kept an ongoing narration as he helped to remove Xigbar's coat, verbal observations on the state of the wounds and speculations on what the battle must have been like to earn them.

Xemnas simply returned to his books.

Vexen found himself increasingly unwilling to stay with the group. He left under the pretense of ordering several Dusks to bring food to Aerlen, not wanting her to interrupt the research being performed in either the library or dining room, and then retired to his own quarters for the night.

By the time that morning had rolled around on the clock - the skies were eternally dim, but Xaldin had rigged the lights somehow to get them to automatically brighten during certain hours - Vexen had earned little sleep. His thoughts constantly found themselves migrating back to the dining hall; they replayed Xigbar's agony, Xaldin's frigid silence. Zexion had helped remove the tattered jacket, and Lexaeus had been in the middle of unwinding a wide strip of gauze when Vexen had excused himself.

Xemnas was the only one of them who had shown no interest in Xigbar's wound.

He was, Vexen realized, also the only one of them who had remained completely at ease.

Recognition of the irregularity brought a cool shiver across Vexen's nerves. His sheets felt thin. Rolling over, he watched the slow glow of the hallway lights creep under the doorway, and turn his room from black to grey.

The dining room was empty of power. The dishes had been cleared away. Stacks of books had been reshelved, and the numerous notepads, loose papers, and folders had vanished back to their respective offices. Only the tablecloth had been left behind to mark the events of the last few weeks. In the dimmed light, Xaldin's ink-vine sketches seemed to crawl off the table, slithering around the rungs of the chairs; Vexen paused in the doorway as he stared directly at them, willing the marks to immobility underneath his gaze.

Xigbar had been propped up on the narrow couch. Stripped of his jacket and shirt, the man sported several wide strips of gauze wrapped about his body, covering him from his stomach up to his arms. Blood had soaked through in places, dotting the gauze like red rain on snow. A damp washcloth was draped over half of his face; it obscured his expression and covered part of his mouth like a stage performer in preparation for a masque.

"Sorry," he was saying quietly to the figure standing in front of him, "about the jacket."

Xaldin did not move. His voice was too low for Vexen to catch; rather than intrude further, the researcher eased past the dining room and left the two to their own discussion.

It was in the library that he found the remaining researchers, all looking as if they had not slept since the previous day. Someone had turned the lights up to full; every lamp in the room was dialed up to its maximum potency, creating strange cross-shadows that trickled faint lines across the floor.

"He accepted some painkillers," Zexion was muttering, raking his fingers through his bangs. The hairs stuck out in all directions, refusing to lie flat. "At least, that's what I hope they were. He tried to say he didn't need them at first, but he's resting now. I think the towel helps." He did not pause in his report as Vexen pushed into the room, but he did give the other man a nod. "Xaldin's keeping watch. We found what we're fairly certain is iodine to help sterilize the wound, and we're steaming some clean cloths, but if he takes an infection, we can't risk unlabeled bottles while we try to find an antibiotic remedy. None of us," he added with a breathless laugh, "thought to purchase medical supplies from Twilight."

Across the room, Xemnas lounged in a chair, his hands loosely encircling the teacup resting in his lap. His contribution summarized itself inside a mild shrug. "Rest is our best option, then. Patience and time will have to do their work."

Vexen discovered his lip curling at the other man's nonchalance. "Do we _have_ that time?" he threw out in open challenge. "Or are you willing to treat our health so frivolously?"

If he was hoping to change Xemnas's demeanor, he had no such luck. Drowsy eyes blinked once, and then Xemnas was sliding his gaze in Vexen's direction, sleek and unworried. "If it was a Keyblade wound," he enunciated quietly, "we might not be able to do anything about it at all. The Darkness won't heal us, not like it does the Shadows. If we're human, none of us know the proper spells to fix something like this. If we're not - then there's still nothing we can do."

"If we're _nobodies_." At the main table, Lexaeus was still working; the box of first-aid supplies was spread out in front of him like a murder victim flayed, trays untucked and lined up like plastic organs on display. He reached out and picked up a wad of bloodied gauze, unwinding it between his fingers. The red stains were already drying to brown, following an inescapable progression of rot that nothing alive could escape. "If we're no longer human, what's the solution?"

Xemnas sighed. The confident mask slipped away into uncertainty as he did, softening the lines of his face back into something mortal once more. "I'm thinking. I'm _thinking_." His knuckles rubbed against his temples; pressure drew tiny lines around Xemnas's mouth, but still he kept on pushing. "Maybe we could reclaim our hearts, and yet be _stronger_ than them to keep from becoming controlled once more. If _we_ could become the masters - but I don't know. I don't know how to force our hearts to serve us, rather than the other way around. The Heartless don't obey. Our original hearts never did. Is there any way we can exist without them?"

The question hung in the air, a living string of doubt. The words turned Xemnas's throat raw with honesty; for a moment, he looked young again, morose and frustrated with ignorance.

It was Lexaeus who found philosophy in the midst of doubt. "There are some schools of thought where death is simply another word for transformation," he offered aloud. "Perhaps upon the loss of our current lives, we too will become changed into another form of life, just as our hearts were."

Xemnas pushed away from the table in a fluid shove of his arms. "Then let us not subscribe to those schools." Unbridled energy brought him to his feet; he paced like a hungry predator across the room, shifting from hesitation to bravado as easily as another man might change a shirt. "We'll have to be more careful with our explorations. There are at least two Keyblade Masters out there along with our Heartless, and mine has retained human form. We have discovered that we have opposition - and it will be strong. There is no choice left, but to prepare."

"For war?"

The syllables dropped through the air like a cannonball into water. The noise stunned them all into silence as effectively as if the shot itself had been fired into their midst: a stark warning of violence to come.

From down the table, Zexion was regarding the other researchers through the curtain of his hair. The strands had slipped over his eyes in a shredded veil, and he made no motion to push them aside. "You speak of enemies, Xemnas. Not a scientific experiment, or a theoretical logistics riddle for us to solve. This _will_ be a fight," he continued softly, slender fingers interlacing themselves atop the tablecloth, "and the most we've ever played at being soldiers was that one time out in the woods during Master Ansem's survival tests."

Xemnas smirked, amusement warming his voice to a simmering drawl. "That? That was... so _long_ ago - "

"_We all died_."

False humor bled away from Xemnas's expression, guttering out like the heartbeat of a murder victim in a river. "Think of it like a puzzle, then." He did not fight against the truth, or even the memory of their failure; all he did was address the youngest researcher directly, as if no one else in the room existed but the two of them. "We have no allies except for ourselves and our fellow Dusks. Our own hearts likely direct the Shadows in the form of sentient Heartless. Tell me - when you consider it like that, Zexion," he called out, lifting his voice to round the syllables out across the library, "can you honestly say that you are _not_ eager to solve that challenge?"

Zexion held his gaze without flinching. Something passed between them during that silent regard, a flicker of meaning that Vexen was unable to interpret. He only caught it through the slight narrowing of Xemnas's eyes, the way that Zexion's lungs stilled, abandoning breath in favor of anticipation.

Finally, the standoff broke.

It was Zexion who surrendered first; his eyes flickered to the side once, and then a brief smile appeared on the man's lips. "And you say you have no capacity for manipulation," the youngest researcher murmured, glancing down at last in a feline's sly submission: containing nothing of humility, brimming over with secret promise. Rather than resume the confrontation, Zexion chose instead to address his next question down the length of the central table. "What about you, Lexaeus? What will you decide?"

Lexaeus only shook his head, his agreement given as easily as everything else about the taller man - gentle, so long as there was no cause to rebel. "I suppose I can think of one good reason that it'd be a relief if we're not entirely human anymore."

"What's that?"

"We won't die from the malnutrition in our diets after all." Pushing his chair back, the redhead began to gather his supplies, packing the medkit closed again with a crisp snapping of plastic trays and the reek of antisceptic. "I'll instruct Xaldin in how to treat the wound. Zexion, you can come with me."

In the subdued flurry of activity, Xemnas's attention turned next upon Vexen. The scientist glared back impassively, unwilling to show any weakness, any agreement or refusal. He expected that Xemnas would speak, would devise some means of argument that Vexen could safely dismiss - but the other man only swung back towards the table, stacking his notes methodically, pencil to the side.

"Did you expect this would happen, Xemnas?" Vexen's voice seemed detached from the rest of his body. He found himself staring at the bookshelves, unable to look at the other man directly while he accused him. Zexion's section was overflowing with star charts. Xaldin had clocks. Xemnas's was empty, empty of belongings, of attachments. "Is that why you're so calm? Did you _know?_"

To his left, he could hear Xemnas pause - but the other man offered no answer, and then Vexen was alone.


	8. Chapter 8

The attack on Xigbar overrode everyone's priorities for several days. While Vexen did not care to monitor the details of the gunner's recovery, there was still the matter of the portals to research, and how safe Twilight could be if a Keyblade Master was around. Xigbar was the only one of them who had learned how to use the gateways, and not even he had dared to explore further.

Too, there was a new classification for them to deal with: the word of _nobody_, and what that definition entailed.

Vexen invented half a dozen new curses as he searched through the library for rumors of Shadows, of Keyblade Master, and Dusks. Most of them involved Xemnas's name. The influx of fresh books provided dozens of countries, hundreds of families, and no mention of Heartless anywhere.

He argued with Aerlen when he next visited her, not bothering to call her out to the examination chambers. The air in her bedroom smelled musty, shut-in, and he frowned at the stagnant odor as he strode across the floor to the windows.

None of them were unlocked. Struggling with one of the latches, he resisted the urge to break the glass, and instead voiced his annoyance aloud. "Why can't I get these things open?"

"Because Braig fastened them from the outside," she retorted sourly. "_Remember?_"

He gave the window another shove. It groaned smugly against his hand, and refused to budge.

Aerlen was watching his attempts from her bed, kicking her heels back and forth in synchronized rhythm. "At least let me go around outside the warehouse," she insisted. "I can bring a Dusk with me. I can bring two!"

Unwilling to conduct the discussion further, Vexen simply abandoned her there, brusquely ordering the first Dusks he encountered back towards her rooms. Either she would find her own way to the kitchens, he decided, or she would starve. Regardless, they all had other concerns - and chances of being reprimanded by Xemnas for losing the girl were minimal. The man's attention was thoroughly embroiled by whatever had encompassed him this time, and if his strange behavior was any indication, Vexen knew it would be impossible to force an explanation.

Irritated by the situation, Vexen went to his office, sat down, and five minutes later, spoke.

"Come out of there, Xigbar. You breathe too loud."

The gunner melted out of the ceiling before he had even finished the last sentance. Descending headfirst, the man slid out of the dark blot that opened itself in thin air; rather than wait on dramatics, he planted both hands on the other side of the portal and hauled himself the rest of the way out.

"Hey," he offered by way of greeting, crouching barefoot on the plaster. His bandages had been changed fresh that morning. The white gauze was clean and unstained, wrapped with embalmer's care around his torso and one arm. His eye had been covered underneath a cotton pad. The entire effect was a jaunty cross between a hospice patient and a bandit; weariness had marked extra lines in Xigbar's face, but it had left his grin alone.

From the first glance, Vexen could tell that the gunner remained in a weakened condition. The man's infamous control over gravity was spotty. Rather than a perfect inversion of space, Xigbar had only bothered to flip his own personal vertical, ignoring any other details. His ponytail hung down in a streaked rope, and the drawstring of his pants swung past his navel, brushing against his ribs. One loose strip of gauze dangled like the tail of a kite, waving slightly in the air currents.

He didn't seem at all disturbed by Vexen's discovery; rather, the gunner simply offered a long, appraising stare. "I'm surprised you even looked up here."

Vexen only frowned. "Why," he began, tasting the oddity of the words, "were you hiding in my _ceiling_?"

Xigbar's grin changed from amused to cautious. "Escaping from Ienzo. Why does a sadist like him always end up with the med kits?"

"Because only he and Lexaeus could be bothered learning how to use the contents. Xemnas was always too busy, Xaldin hates the sight of needles, and the only person's health I've ever cared about was my own. Come down," Vexen insisted, as his neck began to send warning cricks down his spine. "I want to see how you're healing up."

Xigbar scowled, but dropped onto the floor, neatly twisting in midair to land on his feet. His heels squeaked on the tile. Vexen's carpet had a strange habit of migrating between his bedroom and his office; that day it was absent from both. "At least Elaeus would just give me two tablets for the pain, two punches on the shoulder for needing pills _at all_, and then he'd send me on my way," the gunner groused. He flopped into the nearest chair, scooting it closer to Vexen's desk by dragging it along with his toes. "Ienzo always likes to tell me in _great_ detail about all the ways I can catch a disfiguring infection."

"I should hardly think you'd need to care about your face now," Vexen snapped off crisply. The insult held little malice in the words, born of automatic habit. The cut that took Xigbar's eye was less of a slash than he'd imagined; the protective ridge of the socket had caught the leading edge of the weapon as it descended, so that strike alone could not have been enough to cause the extent of the damage. Whoever the Keyblade Master was, he had kept the presence of mind to twist his peculiar weapon and _dig_, gouging the orb until it was a ruined waste.

Lexaeus had used cotton to pack the wound, layered with gauze; underneath the pristine outer layers, the whole mess had soaked through to combine blood and clotted tissue and fiber together into a stained blob. As Vexen picked at the coverings, he could not tell how much was bandage, and how much was salvageable flesh. The only glimpse he remembered of the facial injury had involved a hollow socket, with the eyelid looking like a wrinkled, crushed slug. At the time, Vexen had wondered if the effect stemmed from some manner of cut to the skin itself; now, as he squinted at the gauze padding, he could see that the lid had indeed been lacerated, bunching up in a malformed lump.

"Doesn't it hurt?" he wondered aloud, curious at how immobile the gunner could remain during the probing. One of the pieces of cotton looked as if it had fastened itself to the wound; giving it an experimental tug, Vexen then took better hold of it and yanked.

Xigbar pulled back at last, covering up the socket with his palm. "_Duh._" The sound cut off halfway, bubbled in his mouth and broken. He recovered swiftly, coughing out a grin. "But I've had worse. This was nothing compared to how bad I've messed myself up before," he bragged, even as he continued to lean away from Vexen's hand. "Scratch like this won't keep me down."

The scientist let the claim slide by. His fingers searched for the nearest blank journal on his desk, and discovered a half-filled notepad. "Have you noticed any quirks about monocular vision?"

"Some things." Relaxing once it seemed like Vexen would not resume his investigations, the gunner slumped back against his chair. "The world looks flatter, mostly around here," he waved vaguely to his left, "and I end up focusing on stuff only if it's straight in front of me, so I keep turning my head to look at things. Stuff that's too far away, I don't notice - just the middle range. I don't like people standing on my right either," Xigbar added with a loose shrug. "It's like everything there doesn't exist anymore. And you know what they say about depth perception?"

Vexen blinked as the gunner leaned forward. "Oh?"

"It's _all true_."

Ignoring the suspicion that Xigbar was implying something lewd, Vexen pushed the notes aside - growth charts measuring Aerlen, which had been performed once every full clock cycle by the gunner, according to the arbitrary time notation. The raw data spanned several journals; Xigbar had made up for his lack of definitive results by sheer volume. "How much would you say your perception has been hindered?" he began, making a vague flap of his hand in the air. "Can you see that?"

Xigbar swatted Vexen's wrist away with a hard _smack_ that left the scientist's bones stinging. "I'm not your damned research subject, Vexen. Anyway, the answer's yes. I'm not that bad off. Shouldn't be too long before I'm out again."

Vexen was halfway through a scribbled notation before he realized exactly what the other man was saying; jerking upright, he delivered a hard stare towards the gunner. "You're returning to exploration?"

A crescent smile was his answer. "Why not?"

"Perhaps I'm missing something," Vexen stated frostily, "but any town where a known hostile entity attacked would make _me_ less inclined to repeat trips, that's for sure."

Xigbar's confidence did not diminish. "Yeah, and you see _everything_ as a threat." Reaching out, the man plucked the pen out of Vexen's grip and twiddled the barrel in his fingers, lazily dodging it away from any attempts of the scientist for recovery. "Do you remember how much you hated Ienzo when you first met him? You were out for blood."

Rather than acknowledge either the claim or the theft, Vexen sat back and folded his arms. "Why do you remember things like that?"

"We grew up together, Even. It's not hard." Another swoop of the pen through the air, and then Xigbar released it, allowing gravity to warp around the slender case and send it in a wide orbit above their heads. "How about the first day I came to the castle? You remember that?"

"You stank of fish." Unbidden, the memory swam to the surface, drawn like salmon up the Rising Falls. Vexen found the past reviving in his senses. His skin had baked under the heat of the afternoon sun on the boat. The smell of salt had been strong on the breeze, coupled with the bristle of wet rope.

Xigbar was continuing to ramble. "I used to be a cliff diver's son. When I'd sleep, I'd dream about the next big catch of the season. Nothing bigger than that." Pausing, he offered another grin, weaker this time. "Dilan and I weren't like you, Even. Elaeus too. Our families gave us as apprentices for the money, we weren't picked for outstanding school grades." He barked a laugh suddenly, touching the gauze over his face as if the humor had pained him. "I couldn't even _read_ before the King made me learn. It never mattered for fishing. But back then, when I was talking to this guy that everyone was calling, 'your majesty,' all I could see was this scowling brat next to him - still grabbing onto the King's jacket like some baby with his mother's skirt. I said to myself, 'is _that_ what I'm supposed to be like? Is that what I'm gonna be?'"

"I was repulsed." The response was slow, but inevitable, now that Xigbar had begun to dredge up the past. "You looked and sounded _exactly_ like an uneducated wharf beggar. Master Ansem told me you'd come from one of the fishing villages near the Falls - and you never got rid of that _atrocious_ accent."

The floating pen danced around one of the overhanging lights; it zoomed in widening spirals, twisting like a living dart. "I was his second apprentice. But you were his first." Another man might have spoken those words with wounded pride; Xigbar simply shrugged it off. He ran his fingers through his ponytail to tug out the lacing, and then pulled the elastic taut, snapping it out towards the flying inkpen. "When I was a kid, I could never figure out why a King would accept me. He always used to tell me that all kinds of knowledge were useful. Except, he lied at the end."

Distracted by the neat arc of the elastic, Vexen automatically urged him on. "How?"

"He refused to accept Darkness. That was the only thing he couldn't find a place for in the Bastion. If he had," Xigbar flopped his legs out, propping his heels against the ground and flexing the ankles back and forth in a sprinter's stretch, "maybe things would've gone a little different. Maybe."

"No." With the loss of Xigbar's attention, entropy finally coaxed its influence back upon the inkpen; the tiny missile slowly began to decline, sinking down through the air. Vexen watched its flight decay. "The one thing he couldn't accept was Xehanort. Not the side that wanted knowledge. Not the side that would lose itself in power."

Xigbar regarded him for a time, his hair skewed across the bandages; the gauze around his forehead had slipped down, giving him a rakish look. It shadowed his one remaining eye. "Do you know why I still go along with all this," he began, "even with all that we've lost? Names, humanity, hearts, my _sight_? Because I know there's no other path to take. But you," the gunner added, pointing one finger unerringly towards Vexen's face, "_you're_ still uncertain about Xehanort. Not because of the Darkness. It's the man himself that bothers you."

Vexen did not take his eyes off the fallen pen. He forced his lips to smile; his mouth felt foreign and too wide for his own skin. "What makes you present such a wild claim?"

"All I have to do is say his name, and you tense up." Xigbar leaned in. The smell of astringent leaked off his body. "You're afraid of Xehanort."

"That's impossible," Vexen retorted. His voice sounded sharp even to his own ears, and he covered it up hastily with what he hoped was a suitably aloof stare. "I don't have a _heart_, remember?"

Xigbar did not let logic sway him. "Then it's the _memory_ of fear affecting you, which's the same thing for us right now. Or do you want me to remind you about inertial frames of reference - which," he added blithely, "I believe you failed the first time they were presented in class, yeah?"

Betrayed by their mutual history, Vexen clenched his jaw in affront. "_Don't_ try to equate physics to the spirit."

"We already did, back in year three. _My_ proof was better." When Vexen opened his mouth to protest, he was cut off by a ragged laugh. "Listen, Even. We all studied science. Magical, biological, theoretical science. And even though we had all that knowledge available to us, look how we still messed up." The gunner leaned back against his chair, kicking out a foot to scrape it against Vexen's desk. His toes were long, nails trimmed short; he played them along the corner, exploring the wood. "I kinda miss the days when all we had to worry about were midterms, and how you'd need help with your differential geometry."

"Don't remind me." Finding himself drawn in by nostalgia, Vexen pulled his suspicion back like a cloak; it wrapped around his shoulders and returned him to the present moment, skimming away the residual memories of emotion as deftly as a chilled knife. "But more than that - what gives you the right to accuse me of any hesitation where Xemnas is concerned?"

Xigbar's eyebrow quirked. "Better question is, what makes you so upset about it?"

"Because he is _not_ the man we grew up with. Xemnas," the scientist hissed, feeling the hypocrisy in his words, along with a tremble of what might have been unease in a prior life, "knows more than he is telling the rest of us. We cannot trust that he will share that knowledge appropriately. We cannot _assume_," he emphasized, "that he is the same person he used to be."

The warning did not serve to curb Xigbar's nonchalance. "Maybe." His wrists lay limp in his lap; with his hair down in mottled streaks, he seemed both old and young at once. "I remember being a kid back in the Bastion. Now this Keyblade Master says I'm something else. So what am I? What about you?" A shrug. "Either way, I'm not going to find out just by sitting around in here, pretending like I don't know there's a doorway I can open anytime I want."

He stretched again as Vexen digested the words, rearranging his limbs in the office chair as effortlessly as a cat losing its spine. One arm pillowed itself behind his head; the other draped across his leg. His hair remained loose, and he showed no signs of caring.

Finally, the man spoke once more.

"So when are you planning on learning too, Even?" His single yellow eye was narrowed in expectation. "When do you want me to show you how to get out?"

* * *

Xaldin was the second to go. He acknowledged Xigbar's lead through the gates, delaying only long enough to hunt down two more of the black jackets in the appropriate sizes.

Repeating the disguise seemed foolhardy to Vexen; he said as much over breakfast that morning, fully confident in his chance to pin the blame on Xaldin. "Are you sure you want to use the same tactic?" Spooning an extra chunk of berry onto his toast, the scientist gave a brisk rap of his knuckles against the table. "The Keyblade Master has seen that fashion once before. He'll be on the lookout for you."

"Since he already knows what Xigbar looks like," was the lancer's dry answer, "why bother giving him a reason to expect anything different?" The man gave a disdainful snort through his nose and pulled the zippers snug. While the gunner's size had been simple to find, Xaldin's stretched tight across his chest, and he gave it a tug as he shifted the laces of the hood. "All people need to see is a faceless black coat. If they're given what they expect, they'll never bother to look deeper."

All the researchers were in attendance by the time the afternoon rolled around. Xemnas fidgeted as he examined the portal, unwilling to let another researcher dare the trip until his own curiosity was satisfied. He did not touch the doorway, but hovered several feet away, considering it as he would a living being.

Finally, he snapped out a query to the nearest Dusk.

"Will you open the gates for us at any time, if we desire?"

The creature did not hesitate. _Yes._

That answer did not seem to satisfy the man. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, and then barked a short laugh - an exhalation of sound that barely imitated humor. "As simple as that," he scoffed aloud, and then, "Would you do anything, if we ask?"

_Yes._

"Why?"

When the Dusk did not answer, Xemnas pressed again, rounding on his heel to stare down at the white-clad being. "_Why?_"

A clearing of Xigbar's throat, and then the gunner was easing up to Xemnas, slouching with the same indolence that would earn him suspicious looks from the Bastion maids. "I think you're overlooking the most obvious explanation here," he suggested, draping his weight against the other man until Xemnas was forced to push back to remain upright.

The darker-skinned researcher wrinkled his nose, but kept his footing. "And that is?"

Xigbar waggled his finger. "_Magic_."

Xemnas had enough time to look affronted before Xigbar suddenly vanished, disappearing in a flare of darkness - and leaving Xemnas to stagger on the carpet, muscles trying to compensate for a burden that was no longer there. Xaldin wasted no time before following the gunner's lead; he made for the portal instantly, and was gone before anyone could call him to a halt.

The two of them returned later that night, shrugging off any questions about Xaldin's experiences in Twilight. At first, it seemed that the lancer would not go back through again; then, the next morning, Xaldin swiped a piece of toast off Xemnas's breakfast plate, and walked through the gateway after Xigbar as casually as if he had been doing it for years.

Zexion joined the crowd of those studying the mechanics of the portal with the same lack of fuss as he began any other project. He did not announce that he was even trying to learn how to use the gates; Vexen only found out when he saw Zexion use one to shortcut the stairs, lazily stepping through a gateway that opened on the second landing, and reappearing on the first.

When the scientist asked, Zexion only offered a bag of sugar-roasted almonds, and said they had come from Twilight.

Torn between keeping watch over Xemnas and wondering at the new discoveries being made on a world out of sight, Vexen found himself growing increasingly on edge. Aerlen was little better than a distraction; he refused her the run of the city, but no longer cared if she did not remain in her personal rooms. The original order in which the researchers had agreed to question her no longer seemed as relevant now that there was something else for them to study, and Vexen was forced to wonder just how long it had been since he had first acquired the girl to his keeping.

Even with the aid of Twilight Town as a monitor, it was hard to tell how much time had passed since the destruction of Radiant Garden. Twilight had no reference to places that any of the students were familiar with. The town's constellations were foreign, its experience with other worlds was non-existent, and the calendar dating system had a different number of days than Radiant Garden.

Without encountering another survivor of the Bastion, the researchers were hard-pressed to find a reference to orient themselves from. Twilight itself was a third chronology thrown into the mix. Its presence made it simpler to record days, but the researchers had lost an original mooring point to count forward with. Even their physical bodies seemed careless of the hours; Xaldin trimmed his sideburns each day, but Vexen found that his hair had not grown more than an inch since their arrival to the shadow city.

Aerlen could have been their token avatar for normality, but every time they turned around, she seemed a little bigger, a little more different. None of them had more than dim approximations of how a girl's body was supposed to age. Lexaeus was the natural authority for them to turn to - knowing more of physical biology than the rest - but when inquiries started for ways of tracking her aging process, the man simply arched a brow.

"We'll find out soon enough," was all he said. "I'm sure it's only a matter of time before we start wishing she was still a child."

Lexaeus was the next researcher on the assigned list for the girl. With most of his time researching the crops in Twilight, the redhead had become nearly as distracted as Xemnas. Half his waking hours were spent cataloging the numerous saplings back for planting in his garden, along with projecting estimations of potential biological hazards from cross-world flora; he had not spoken up in protest of Vexen's possession of the girl, despite being friendly to her in person.

And, while Vexen could have passed Aerlen off early to the other researchers waiting for their turn, it rankled him to have discovered even less information about their guest than Xigbar.

The dilemma refused to stay shut away. There were no avenues that Vexen could think to pursue. Biology only offered so much in the way of answers, and knowing a girl's pulse rate did not include her hometown. For all that he had been polite towards her, Aerlen refused to volunteer any insights, and each time they spoke only generated more friction.

Rather than fight the impossible, Vexen chose to focus his work on analysis of the worlds. After assuming that Aerlen would spend her time safely in her rooms, he spent the better part of the day in the library with the other researchers, examining a blueprint of Twilight that Xigbar had sketched out. Surprisingly enough, Xemnas frequently joined them. The man had not strayed particularly far from the warehouse since Xigbar's attack. He did not force his way into the portal, did not make demands for information, and was always available in his office whenever Vexen went by.

That change alone was enough to be suspicious. Xemnas had never been predictable, and Vexen knew better than to assume that everything was as it appeared.

Still, there was some measure of peace to be found in their afternoon work together.

They had just finished annotating the early sections of the Fifty Year War timeline when Xemnas paused, straightening up from the table as he glanced past the scientist's shoulder. "You seem to have a follower, Vexen."

Startled, Vexen turned just in time to see a slender figure poke her head into the room. Somehow she had ended up wearing a shirt that was two sizes too large for her body, and the blue fabric hung off her bones like a tent.

"'Abandon Bookmarks, All Ye Who Enter Here'?" she quoted, scrunching up her nose as she tiptoed around the door, head craned back to peer up at the sign. Two long bangs dangled back across her shoulders; one caught on her ear, and the girl flicked it aside automatically, wrist curved like a dancer.

Vexen scowled. "Behave yourself," he snapped, watching the girl start to veer towards the shelves labeled 'Lexaeus.' "This is our library. A place," he was unable to resist adding, "for _reading_."

"You have a _library_?" The taunt pulled Aerlen's lips into a delicate sneer. She planted her feet on the carpet, and gave an arrogant toss of her chin. "Do you just sit around and look at blank pages?"

Faced with the girl's pettiness, Vexen took a deep breath. "We have supplanted our materials with fresh literature," he managed to answer, "and perhaps the remaining content is blank for now, but it is a start. What are you _doing_ here, Aerlen?" he added, trying to ignore the smirk now spreading to Xemnas's face. "I have not asked for you to come."

"You haven't asked for anything from me in days," she piped up in shameless reply. "You haven't even come by to see me. I had to get the _Dusks_ to bring me food. Did you forget all about me?"

"I'll take her back to her rooms if you want," Lexaeus volunteered, even as Vexen's face began to contort in a properly scathing reply. "Do you have any questions you need answered by her today, Vexen, or is she on free time?"

Thwarted by both Lexaeus's agreeable nature and Aerlen's stubbornness, Vexen opened and closed his mouth twice before he could answer. "She is _not_," he insisted sharply, "and you do not need to monitor her. You're supposed to learn how to use the gate once Xaldin returns. You cannot do this with a troublesome adolescent hanging about."

At the reminder, Lexaeus sighed acknowledgement; the redhead did not look more than mildly regretful, even when Aerlen turned pleading eyes in his direction.

When he did not respond to her silent desperation, she darted forward and latched onto his sleeve. "I can learn how to help," she insisted. Her fingers twined in the fabric of his shirt. "I can go with him. I don't mind."

At first it looked as if Lexaeus man would cave; then, after a moment, he shook his head. "No," he told her firmly. "I'll bring you back something nice. Just behave until then, Aerlen." When she pouted, the man offered a chuckle, reaching out to ruffle his thick fingers in her lanky hair. "You don't need to look so unhappy. Here, we can go look at the gardens if you want. Would you like that?"

"Does it matter?" Vexen saw her grimace, and then she was gone, steered away by Lexaeus's hand on her shoulder.

The scientist rolled his eyes, but when he turned back to the main table, he saw that Xemnas had shaken off his false serenity and was watching the direction that Aerlen had gone. "That girl," he announced abruptly, and his voice was dangerous with curiosity. "Does anyone remember how long we've retained her?"

"Several months at least." Vexen watched Zexion's pencil wander; the younger man had not reacted at all to Aerlen's appearance, and was continuing to write. Even with calculations in mind to fix the meddling with the clocks, no one had been able to decipher just how much time had been lost since their arrival. At first, Xemnas had made a brief calendar, but had become too preoccupied to mark off the days. Xigbar had tried to make up for the lapse by crossing off entire weeks at a time, but his efforts were sporadic, and a variable several months had been estimated by Vexen's account.

Xemnas cleared his throat, and Vexen drew himself back to the conversation at hand, just in time to hear the next question. "Has she developed any changes from being exposed so closely to Darkness? Any powers?"

"No." Drumming his fingers on the table as he sorted through his mental inventory, Vexen finally frowned. "In Xigbar's records, there's a note that says Xaldin suggested teaching her, but she's shown no signs of talent so far to anyone."

Just as the scientist was wondering why Xemnas was bothering to ask about the girl, the answer came in the form of a shrug. "Then she's useless." Reaching for the teapot, Xemnas slid his cup closer to the spout, and tilted a rush of hot liquid into it. "At best, a distraction - at worst, an annoyance as the Shadows seek her out. If we want normal humans for any reason, we now have the resource of Twilight Town. Therefore, she is expendable."

At Vexen's stifled noise of protest, Xemnas offered a questioning frown. "Does she provide any actual unique data, really?"

"She is a _contrast_, Xemnas." When that failed to banish the creased eyebrows of the other man, Vexen gritted his teeth and picked words around the hollow gap in his thoughts that Aerlen constantly presented. "A demonstration of how a Dusk and a Heartless can reunite. By watching her, we can predict what will happen when we recover our hearts."

"But we don't want what she has become," the man insisted. His bangs rustled as he gave a disbelieving shake of his head, grinning just enough to show his teeth. "Look at her. Do you _really_ think that her Dusk has any control, or can't you see that her heart has overridden her body and soul? Her Dusk has been forced to return to dormancy once more - as if it never existed to begin with." His spoon tapped against the side of the teacup; Xemnas paused long enough to take a sip, and then winced at the taste. "Do I want to become that sentimental fool who used to chase after our Master's approval? Do _you_ want to return to who you once were?"

His rhetoric was interrupted by Zexion's smug drawl. "You're so willing to discard the power that your Heartless might have, Xemnas." The rough scratching of his pencil paused only long enough for him to flip another sheet of paper over, marking straight lines for equation guides down the length. In the absence of other people to craft word puzzles for him, the youngest researcher had begun to make his own. "Is refusing your heart that vital an issue for you?"

The subject under inquiry waved his spoon in the air, equally mocking. "I want to live, Zexion. I want to stay as I am now - with my mind under _my_ control. Is the hunger I feel each day really from missing my heart? Or is it simply the natural desire to exist? The girl," Xemnas continued harshly, each word a bright note on his teeth, "is _proof_. Her existence shows that a Dusk truly becomes nothing when they regain their hearts. This means we must either devise a means of controlling our old hearts - or find new ones to replace them. No matter what, we must ensure a path of survival. If I must change my heart," and _clink_ went the spoon, sliding around the rim of the sugarbowl in implicit demand, "then so be it."

Vexen yielded the sugar back to Xemnas's keeping; the other man's skin felt as hot as the sun when their fingers brushed. "That's easy for you to say," he interjected, unwilling to let the flow of conversation be snared entirely by Zexion. "We saw how yours turned out. Maybe _my_ Heartless went on to become a benevolent spiritual leader somewhere. Maybe Xaldin's became smart. The possibilities are endless."

Xemnas spared a brief smile at the jibe, and then sobered. "Throw the girl back to the Heartless, Vexen. Let them claim her heart. They could benefit from the fodder, and we need every Dusk we can get once you're done with her."

The whisper of Zexion's pencil stopped.

They heard his voice as a murmur through the steam of mixed tea and conspiracy: "Not before my turn."


	9. Chapter 9

When it came time for his training with the gate, Lexaeus showed no signs of doubt. He spoke only of the need to keep his gardens watered, sketching out a careful list of hours and amounts, plotting out the lawns on a long sheet of grid paper. Problem shrubs were flagged with red circles. Experimental seedlings, in green. Several other notations joined the chart, until the territory seemed like a battleground, with multiple skirmish points for victory.

Once he had finished spelling everything out in careful, precise recitation, Lexaeus glanced back over his shoulder at the room, and then disappeared through the portal.

He was gone for a month. Xaldin was absent with him, with Xigbar serving as the only liaison between their split forces. At times, the gunner would return to drop off fresh supplies from Twilight, along with tidbits of information, mixing gossip with accounting books. Healthy trade with the town was still vital, until they could build up enough resources to afford isolation once more. While the City had given them the basics, it could not provide an explanation for its broken laws of physics, and a structure that seemed impossible to predict.

True to form, Lexaeus's first priorities did not involve a study of Twilight Town's society - or its economy, or even its structural layout. Unlike Xaldin and Xigbar, the redhead chose instead to invest his efforts in understanding the planet itself. He sent Xigbar back with samples of the terrain carefully preserved in tins labeled with masking tape, and plants that had been pressed and dried in paper. Seed pods, the wings of insects, river pebbles: all tiny components that built an encyclopedia of this new land, strung as carefully as silk in a spiderweb.

At first the samples remained moderate, conservative in how much of Twilight they were meant to represent. Then they began to grow. New shipments back to the City included more and more bags, until finally an entire cart's worth of sacks was being ferried through the library gate each time, hauled by an exasperated gunner.

Xigbar's deft manipulations of gravity carried each shipment easily enough, but the bags were loosely tied, and the coverings were smudged on the outside. They gleefully transferred their stains onto whatever they came in contact with during their passage. Several clumps of soil constantly littered the rugs. The distinctive shapes of bootprints were ground into the fibers of the carpets, marking where careless feet had tromped back and forth without looking down.

Vexen, squashed into the rapidly diminishing free space in the library, threw down his pen on the third week when yet another portal opened and spat out a fresh load of burlap sacks. The gunner soon followed, hauling another pair of bags in one hand, a glass bottle full of sand in the other. The scientist straightened himself up with as much affront as he could manage, not wasting any time as Xigbar settled his newest burdens on the floor with a dusty thump.

"Dirt," Vexen observed flatly, allowing the choice of words to convey his scorn. "Lexaeus has you bringing back _dirt_."

Xigbar squinted up at him, offering a rakish grin. His labors had given him a smudge down the side of his face where he'd rubbed at an itch; the mark intersected his old scar, and made his skin appear dented. The bruised peach of his mouth quirked. "It's _good_ dirt."

The gunner's arrival had run invisible signals through the warehouse; even as the two researchers stared at each other across the library, they were interrupted by a parade of Dusks. A line of the flat-handed garden creatures bustled between them, operating together with the same mute efficiency as a bevy of ants to cluster around the bags, pointed faces rubbing against the burlap. One of them squatted down, bracing itself as it wrapped its paws around the nearest sack; the rest pitched their weight behind him until they had the leverage needed to start dragging the stolen dirt away.

Folding his arms as the Dusks writhed past, Vexen wrinkled his nose. "Why doesn't he simply teleport these straight to his yards, rather than have you muck up the carpets?"

A workman's grunt, and Xigbar was fishing the thick bottle off the ground, suspending the mass as neatly as a soap bubble over his palm. "_He_ says he doesn't trust me to keep his gardens from becoming contaminated. Can you imagine? I'm supposed to store the samples in the sheds for now, until he gets back and decides where to put them."

Vexen blinked. "We have sheds?"

"They're behind the firing range." Seeing the scientist's expression shift from surprise into horror, Xigbar broke into rich laughter, neatly spinning the glass bottle in the air. "I'm kidding! Kidding. Maybe. Haven't you seen for yourself yet?" he added, striding across the library as the last Dusk limb began to disappear through the doorway. "Or are you going to stay inside forever?"

* * *

Aerlen was missing from her rooms.

Once, that event had caused havoc. But the lack of results, coupled with the discovery of Twilight Town, had rapidly diminished the girl's value; no one seemed inclined to forcing answers out of an unwilling subject when so many more options were freely at hand. The fact that she had taken the initiative to leave her rooms was not particularly surprising - after all, Vexen had ignored her once already, causing her to search him out in the library. Even though that encounter should have encouraged him to spend more time with the girl, Vexen found himself preferring to leave her in storage with her Dusk guards, safely in reserve. Her disobedience was not a thing he could control or shape, and in many ways, Aerlen was simply a lost cause to him.

But the girl herself remained under his jurisdiction, and as tempting as it might be to misplace her conveniently down a dark well, the last thing that Vexen needed was one of the other researchers accusing him of incompetence.

He eventually sought her out as a matter of curiosity - or so he reasoned it to himself, finding nothing else available to occupy his time until the libraries were clear. His own research seemed destined to be utterly thwarted by Twilight. Lexaeus was scheduled to monitor the girl once Vexen had finished with her, but the work off-world meant that no handoff was possible. Zexion had not explained the reasons behind his strange demand that the girl not be terminated early; he did not volunteer to take Aerlen either, so Vexen was stuck with her in the meantime.

With no hints of her location, the scientist resorted to searching through the warehouse on foot. Asking the Dusks for her location seemed gauche; he disdained treating the creatures as equals, not when they wriggled around like distorted puppets. They would have alerted someone if the girl had attempted to leave the warehouse grounds, that much he could at least count on - which meant that Aerlen was still somewhere near the building.

After hours of navigating cramped stairwells and back corridors, Vexen finally discovered the girl in the center of Lexaeus's garden, surrounded by half-wilted bushes and upturned pots. Her Dusk-attendees bobbed across the stubbled lawn, floating like malformed balloons. The watering schedule was spread out on the long workbench beside her; noticing it, Vexen fought back a wince. None of the researchers had spoken of accepting Lexaeus's assignment, each expecting someone else to handle the chore.

Apparently - when none of them must have remembered - that someone had been Aerlen. A half-filled bucket of water was lined up near her feet as she perched on her bench, curled up with her hands cupped over her toes. Her legs were tucked up against her chest, into a protective ball of limbs and mismatched clothes.

She looked, he thought, like an orphan shielding herself from the rain.

The illusion was easily dispelled with a shake of his head. Vexen picked his way along the garden, sidestepping larger pebbles that creased the soles of his shoes, until he did not have to expend the effort of shouting his question. "Why are you here, Aerlen?"

For a moment, he expected she would not answer. Then her chin lifted a degree, and her voice came like a stiff arrow in the wind, unwavering. "Because I'm waiting for the only person who cares about me."

_Cares._ The word caught at Vexen's ears, more than the ludicrous nature of her sentimentalism. Faced with such stubborn refusal to tolerate the facts, the scientist strode forward the rest of the way, glaring down at her along the bridge of his nose. "You're delusional."

"_You're_ a bastard," she parried evenly, without missing a beat.

The boldness with which the girl delivered the insult only incited the scientist to further disdain. "And when did you start using those kinds of words?"

She gave an indifferent roll of her shoulder. "Since I met Xigbar." When Vexen did not move away, the line of his shadow falling across her body, she finally looked up. "Is it really so wierd that I'm out here? Haven't _you_ ever waited for someone to come home?"

Vexen opened his mouth, and then closed it again, searching the trove of his memories. Only a few years made it past review before he terminated the effort. "No."

The girl seemed to accept the lie, for she turned away, unfolding her legs until her heels dangled on the ground. Practicality had led her to pin back the moppishly long bangs, causing them to hang limply on either side of her ears. He wasn't sure where she might have found the hair clips, or who might have given them to her, but the slender metal glinted with a coppery hue whenever she turned her head, drawing tiny firefly sparks amidst the brown.

"We're not too much different, you know," she volunteered suddenly. One hand moved down to her knee, scratching at an itch. "You and I both get left behind."

Rather than grant her any indication of truth, Vexen only swept back his long vest and settled on the bench beside her. "You know nothing about me."

"I know what you're like _now_." The humidity was different in the garden air than in the warehouse or the streets; the musky scent of living soil and dying plants drifted around them both, a perfume of the organic that had been crammed into a quarter where it could not flourish. "Was everyone so different? Before?"

Hesitating over the dangers of too much idle conversation, Vexen finally took the risk. He had rarely managed to convince Aerlen to speak freely before; if he encouraged her now, she might reveal something about her past after all. "I don't remember," he replied, allowing a small measure of honesty to slip through. "Some of our behaviors remain logical, and so we continue them. Other traits are habit. However much we have changed, it is uncertain if it's because of the Darkness, or if it's because we are no longer under the influence of uncontrollable emotions."

Aerlen shoved the watering can aside with her foot, scraping it along the ground until it slid underneath the workbench. "So what does a heart give, if you're still yourselves without it?"

"We are not sure yet." Vexen paused, feeling the expanse of uncertain territory yawn like a second abyss, lurking within the city to devour any who wandered near. "Other than a connection, perhaps."

"To people?"

He shook his head. "To the Darkness."

"But the Darkness just _takes_ things." She laced her fingers together in her lap, rolling her wrists outwards in a stretch. "Is that why you don't remember what feelings are like? Not because you don't have them, but because you don't remember enough to recognize them?"

Uncomfortable with her assumptions, Vexen cut off his half of the conversation with a scoff. "Who encouraged you on such trains of thought?"

"_You_ did," she shot back. "It's all you ever talk about, what _else_ should I -" Breaking off suddenly, she turned her head away, tucking her chin against her shoulder in a rejection of his company.

They said nothing then for a while, keeping vigil silently in the garden. Night came in the form of tracklights activating on mechanical timers, dimming slowly by degrees until Vexen found himself blinking against the blackness that had crawled in around his eyes. Lexaeus had rigged a canvas to help block out the ambient light from the roads - falsifying a diurnal cycle for a sky which held no sun - and the line it formed thickened with the darkness until it seemed like a solid wall.

Hidden within its isolated corners, the garden seemed murky and secluded. Aerlen was a mixed blur of grey skin and black hair, turned monotone from the fainter light. When at last she stirred, it was to lean back against the table, crinkling the watering chart underneath one elbow.

Her voice was very quiet.

"When can I go home?"

"You can't." Vexen provided the reminder without malice. "Your world is quite likely destroyed."

"But not all villages are gone yet," she persisted. "The Dusks brought back food, right? And books. I could go to this Twilight Town - I could go _somewhere_. The gates are a way out. I can take them."

Hearing this, Vexen fought back a sigh. "There is no guarantee that a normal human can travel one of the gates safely, Aerlen. You might attract Heartless," he lectured, watching the pair of Dusk guards imitating a game of catch across the lawns.

The old threat held less weight that he had hoped; Aerlen flexed her ankles, kicking one heel against the ground to leave a divot in the dirt. "I'll be caught by the Heartless anyway," was her sour retort. "Sooner or later, they'll take me. You don't need me anymore," she suddenly pled, bitterness turning to stunted hope. "There are... there are other people you can study. You don't even _want_ me. Can't I go?"

"You have no choice," Vexen insisted blankly. The situation was inevitable; she could have been arguing about the color of the sky, and claiming that black was white. "You are required to stay. As the only surviving example of a reunited Dusk and Heartless," he stressed, feeling the ancient excuse spell out its ritual defense, "you are too valuable as a test specimen - "

"In case you need me," she finished for him, balling up her hands into tight fists. Her face was a vague oval in the gloom. "But you don't. I'm not an object, I'm a _person_." The workbench shuddered as she struck it, drumming the wood with an anger that quickly shriveled and died away. "Is it really so hard to see me like that?"

The frustrated seesawing of her violence tugged at a part of his attention, pouring into Vexen's thoughts until he found himself watching her, dissecting the emotions of her claim until they grew smaller and smaller: sentences becoming words, becoming sounds, and thereby tame. "No hearts," he reminded her softly. The words were unexpectedly restrained, lacking their customary vitriol. "No hearts, no connection."

She stared at him for a moment before reaching out, splaying her fingers on either side of his face. One of her fingers was sticky; it caught in the strands of his hair, tugging them with the insistence of lost children. "I'm right here. I'm alive. _Look at me_," she whispered, harsh enough to be a hiss, her dark eyes hot as starving wolves. "I'm _here_."

Her intensity was discomforting. Vexen's gaze skipped away from her expression. "No," he refused hollowly, fumbling to take her wrists in his hands. "You're _nothing_."

Repetition of the words did nothing to dissolve the grim mien that weighed down the girl's lips. Somehow, she had crawled forward on the bench while they'd been speaking, until her knees pressed against his leg; then her weight saddled itself across his lap as she continued to advance, warm and heavy. She refused to let him glance away, fingers digging into his jaw and skull as she kept turning his head back towards her, again and again, no matter how many times he flinched.

Confronted by a ferocity that he had not seen in all the time since they retained her, Vexen froze. For the first time, he found himself wondering how old Aerlen really was - and how dangerous.

They stared each other down in the mixed light of the garden, painted in lukewarm shadows that gathered and swelled around them. Tendons flexed under his palms as his fingers gripped at her arms. He did not know how to break the stand-off; did not know what she wanted, except for an impossible dream that no logic could satisfy.

"Fine," she decided eventually, releasing her touch on his face, allowing him to push her away. "I can hate you enough for the both of us."

* * *

"Aerlen," he announced later, "doesn't seem to like me."

Zexion glanced up from where he was sorting through the supplies strewn about the library table. "Can you blame her?"

Lexaeus had returned the previous evening with a minimum of fuss. He had not shouted about the success of his time in Twilight, but there was a pleased flush across his cheeks, and he ate well at dinner that night. The inventory of Twilight ecology encompassed an entire catalogue; he offered the neatly-printed journal to the rest of them, filled from page to page with precise annotations of all the samples he had taken.

Vexen wasted no time in informing the redhead that Aerlen was now transferred to his possession. Even that fact did not dim Lexaeus's energy, and he took the news in stride as he carried his bags back to his room, laughing.

All this finally brought Vexen back to the library, only to discover that Zexion had been preparing for an extended trip of his own.

Two of the packs on the table were empty, brought along to be filled with whatever provisions Zexion chose to purchase on his visit. A munny pouch was tied to the side of the third. Vexen's idle investigations had spilled out the contents, and now he was sorting through the assortment of currency, noting familiar gil mixed with coins cut from ivory. Many sported black numbers on their faces to translate their relative financial value. A few had profiles of various dead rulers, kings and queens and - in one case - a frog.

Just as Vexen had begun to decipher some of the markings, Zexion swept up the coins with one hand, gathering them back into the munny pouch. "I'll be back later," he announced, and then, "Can you meet me in the Town Square in a few hours? There are some things I'd like to show you."

Caught off-guard, Vexen jerked out of his distraction. "No," he stammered out, unwilling to admit to unfamiliarity when everyone else had already mastered the gates. "I mean, I'm afraid that I'm busy."

Zexion lifted a thin eyebrow. "How about tomorrow morning?"

"That's... not a good time either."

He might have known better than to fool the younger researcher; Zexion only shrugged, a knowing smile seeping across his features. "Another time, then. I'll see you later."

Xaldin and Xigbar were no sooner back to the warehouse than gone again, this time with claims of further Dusk training. Lexaeus was only seen sporadically at meals, his broad hands lined with soil from his garden, and his attention fixed on his journals. Even the Dusks seemed distracted, arranging themselves by types that had gradually started to differ more and more depending on who had interacted with them last.

With Aerlen finally whisked away to other keepers, Vexen found his days increasingly empty of any diversions. The riddles of the City had all been abandoned, much like the empty apartments and mislabeled convenience stores; none of the other researchers seemed to care about where everything had come from, now that there was the ability to explore outside of their hollow cage. It no longer mattered to try and formulate a time system for a world with no sun; malformed compass directions were equally discarded, and the suggestions for cartography were neatly shoved aside to gather dust on the lowest shelves in the library. Now there were the secrets of Twilight to uncover. Books with words were far more appealing than those without, and Vexen found that his colleagues were - predictably - tackling the new wonders at hand rather than circling endlessly like hawks around mysteries that refused to unveil themselves.

Of the City's continued decay, Vexen knew little. An afternoon spent trying to match up the streets to those marked out on Xemnas's private maps only resulted in disorientation; Vexen found himself at the same street corner three times in a row, bathed in the blinking pink and green lights of a grocery store advertisement. He could not find his way to the eroded streets. He did not even know where to start on his own.

His hunt for direction dragged him back into the warehouse in search of Xemnas. Somehow, the effects of the Dusks - or whatever force was manipulating the warehouse - had finally reached the man's lair, deftly replacing the room with a spiral stairwell that led all the way up to the third floor. The new office bore little resemblance to its first incarnation as a cramped storage room. Now it had expanded into a long chamber, with several windows lacing two of the walls, sandwiching the length of the study like a sunroom under glass. On either side, streetlights could be seen extending to the edges of the horizon, forming rows and rows of doubled stars and intersections, constellations mired to the ground.

Winter had left the city behind as gracefully as a mist vanishing at noon. In Xemnas's office, it felt already like summer. The third floor was not the highest section of the warehouse - a term which was rapidly becoming inapplicable, with all the changes that had mutated the building - but Xemnas's office was well above those chosen by the other researchers, who remained on the first and second levels. With the windows shut, the temperatures bordered on stifling. There was no direct sunlight to heat up the interior, but warm air still wafted up through the stairwells and halls, collecting in the upper rooms and drifting around the lone figure of Xemnas as he read on a couch far across the room, surrounded by stacks of books.

Vexen scowled at the heat. Unaddressed, he made directly for the left side of the room, hoping that none of the windows had been locked from the outside.

As he flicked open the curtains, searching for a latch, Xemnas finally spoke.

"They're on the right." The sentence drifted for a moment without explanation, and then, "The fastenings. They're on the right side of the frames."

Irritated by the ease with which Xemnas had predicted his troubles, Vexen located the nearest switch and cranked open the window. A cool breeze instantly trickled over his hand. "How can you stay in here and read at a time like this?"

"I could ask you the same thing. Aren't you supposed to be out somewhere?" Gaze fastened to the pages of his book, Xemnas gave a loose flap of his hand. "Perhaps, doing something productive with everyone else? Something with fusion spells, or fixing the lights in the downstairs hall?"

Ignoring the blatant dismissal, Vexen only moved to the next window, tilting it open as well. "More productive than you?" he bit out in reply. "Tell me, have you found a way to destroy a Keyblade Master yet, or have you simply been wasting your time?"

If he had expected some grand magic to leap out of Xemnas's office - out of an incantation drawn on the floor, or in the form of a monstrous Dusk appearing suddenly out of a book - Vexen found nothing but disappointment. Xemnas pinched the chapter pages in his fingers as he flipped back through the book, searching and skimming. "You'd be surprised," the man answered mildly. "You should _see_ some of the new material the Dusks are bringing back from other worlds. I can't make sense of it all - there are references to all _kinds_ of different things, and none of them are from the same kingdom." Leaning forward, his voice taking on a feverish note, Xemnas continued to rifle through the printed sections. "There's a philosopher here who speaks about the principles of humanoid groups as a... a collective unconscious called an _animus_, with the desire for independent consciousness as an _anima_. It's an interesting idea, but there's another volume here," he continued, putting aside the first book in favor of pawing through the stacks, dark fingers splayed with a student's abandon, "that tries to talk about them as masculine and feminine qualities instead. I think they're just using the same words." Delivering his conclusion with a needlessly dramatic sigh, he flopped back against the couch. "That, or they're all insane. The first author _also_ goes on to say that giant machines will tread across the earth and bring war behind them, so I'm not sure how much I should believe everything he's written. Plus, I think he observes a holy day that involves fish gelatin."

Vexen folded his arms as he leaned back against the windowsill, allowing the words to settle on the air, bright shards of inspiration that floated like firepit sparks. Then he presented the one challenge that all of Xemnas's enthusiasm could not defend against. "Is _any_ of this useful for learning the gates?"

Caught in a terminal lack of practicality, Xemnas worked the pad of a finger against one of his eyebrows, rubbing it in the familiar pattern of an impending headache that Vexen recognized from his own studies. "No," he admitted, around the crook of his smile: a shameless means of confession that their old master had been too fond of forgiving; it had smuggled him out of study halls and homework assignments with abandon. "I got distracted. The theories reminded me of the Dusks. Namely, the difference between the common Dusks, and ourselves."

Vexen resisted the temptation to roll his eyes at the other man's frivolousness. "Now is hardly the time to become introspective about our natures," he retorted.

White hair shifted; Xemnas straightened from his slouch with a sharp toss of his head. "Now is the _perfect_ time, Vexen. The Dusks obey us. _Why?_" The question presented, he followed it up with a rapid series of conclusions. "Because we are greater forms _of_ Dusk, Vexen. Just as the Heartless obey the stronger beings within their ranks, so are the smaller Dusks compelled to serve us. At the same time, they are linked by a common thread that we are _not_ a part of - a collective, as we are independent. Or so we believe." His hands slid over the books again; he turned the cover of a leather-bound tome over and over, restlessness propelling his motions. "Could it be that someday, there will be a Dusk powerful enough to command even ourselves? One that we will be unable to say no to, simply because it exists?"

Snarled by the roundabout twists of Xemnas's logic, Vexen found himself retreating mentally, reviewing the conversation in search of whatever gaps he might have missed - or that Xemnas might have simply leapt straight across. "It may be," he was forced to admit, the words leaking grudgingly from his mouth. "But if that is the case, we will be helpless against this being's control, with no ability to defend ourselves from such a thing."

The prospect brought little in the way of discouragement to Xemnas's face. Instead, the man smiled, impossibly at ease. "Then I'll have to become the strongest first," he offered congenially, as guileless as a child discussing a caramel sweet, "won't I?"

* * *

When the third week went by, and the city itself began to feel like a cage - gentler weather made it easier to go walking, but the snow had turned to rain, flooding the streets once more - Vexen gave up any attempts to organize his studies. The lack of resources grated. In all the transformations that the warehouse had taken, none of them had produced a laboratory for him to use, and each of the other researchers had engaged in their own studies already.

He did not know what it would mean, if everyone else had a chance to move on, and he was left flagging.

Surprisingly, it was Xigbar who exercised tact on the matter. When Vexen finally bit down on his own pride and sought out the gunner for help with the gates, Xigbar only shrugged, his attention fixed on dissembling what looked like a primitive handgun. "Xaldin and I were wondering when you'd come by," he commented, fumbling for an oilcloth. "Tomorrow afternoon works. Meet us in the library."

The ease by which he'd requested the appointment might have disconcerted Vexen, if his thoughts had not already been filled with doubt of Xemnas's behavior. After their last conversation, Vexen had taken up avoiding the other man; then, when Xemnas did not even seem to notice the numerous cold shoulders turned in his direction, Vexen abandoned his efforts to force the other man to speak. Xemnas had never bothered to stick to the same trains of thought as everyone else. Gateways to mysterious lands could not even begin to change that.

Too, Vexen could not shake the impression that Xemnas - once again - had not revealed all the reasons behind his sudden interest in the nature of Dusks.

His reverie was broken by Xaldin's arrival through one of the gates just as the hour slid past noon; the doorway yawned open in front of a bookshelf and left the lancer behind, shaking raindrops off the long coils of his hair.

"Here," was all he said, dropping a heavy wad of leather onto Vexen's lap.

The material reeked of chemicals; it had been freshly treated against moisture, judging by the smell, and left an oily residue behind on his fingers when Vexen tried to tug it away. "What _is_ this?"

"Your new coat." Glimpsing the scientist's revulsion, Xaldin laughed. "I asked Lexaeus for your measurements the last time I went out. Most of us," he continued ruthlessly, "have similar builds. You were an exception. As long as we wear the same jackets while we're out on business, no one should be able to tell us apart. Strength in ignorance," he added with a grin, exposing the neat white rows of his teeth.

Leather creaked as Vexen turned the coat around to try and determine which side was up. He managed to parse out the sleeves, though the sheer amount of the material seemed better suited for a dress. "Will this take long?" he asked loftily.

The lancer propped up one of his boots on a chair cushion, fiddling with the laces to make certain they were uniformly tight. "Zexion got the knack of it in less than an hour. I'm sure you can do better."

"And Xemnas?"

"_Xemnas_," the lancer announced, smoothing out the man's name like a ream of black silk, "hasn't asked to go yet."

The irregularity jarred against Vexen's nerves; he pushed himself to his feet, dumping the jacket onto the chair. It instantly began to slither to the floor. He did not wait to explain himself, kicking the material out of the way and running for the door; the soles of his boots skidded on the floor when he hooked the turn too quickly, and had to catch himself on the corner of the hall.

He clambered up the stairs, gripping the spiral railing to help haul his weight up the twists. Xemnas's door was still ajar, as it had been the first time the scientist had visited; without pausing to count his luck, Vexen simply shoved the door the rest of the way open, a name on his lips before he had even managed to steady the rhythm of his own breath.

"Xemnas!"

The man in question was standing at one of the windows on the right side of the office, a teacup in his hands as he regarded the city. The air smelled faintly of lemongrass; it reeked of tinctures brewed in a Bastion summer, and Vexen instantly disliked it.

"In such a hurry, Vexen? Xaldin told me the three of you would be visiting Twilight by now." After a moment, the man arched a polite eyebrow. "Shouldn't you be there with them?"

"Yes." At first Vexen simply leaned against the doorway, wondering if his suspicion was painted on his face; then, when no verbal reprimand came, he pressed ahead, ignoring caution. "What about your plans? It's not like you to avoid testing a discovery like this."

Xemnas lifted his teacup, smiling enigmatically against the rim. "You speak as if it's a regular occurrence."

"And the last time you refrained from joining in," the scientist retorted brutally, refusing to back down, "I discovered you had been filling your time by slaughtering Dusks."

Vexen's reward was silence. Then Xemnas lowered the cup back onto the saucer with a small _tink_. "I've been measuring the decay again," he revealed, his voice carefully neutral. "Traveling through the gates to Twilight has done nothing to arrest it."

The logic - or lack of it - brought a bark of laughter to Vexen's mouth. Discovering that Xemnas's recent seclusion hinged off a faulty premise was beyond ludicrous. "And did you expect it would?"

Xemnas only frowned. "I might have hoped the connection to something more stable would help." He turned away from the window at last, pacing along the length of the office, away from Vexen and back again. "It looks like the only way to reinforce the existence of this world is to increase the number of Dusks - of _Nobodies_," the man grimaced, mouthing the word a second time as if the taste might be better with repetition. "And to do that is to encourage the Heartless to devour more worlds. In order to guide the Heartless," he continued, ruthlessly progressing down each conclusion in the chain, "we must become powerful - more powerful than we ever have been before, if we're to control two warring forces. All to buy time until we can claim hearts of our own. _That's_ what I've been thinking about here," he concluded sharply, settling the saucer and its companion teacup on his desk. He brought the weight of his gaze back upon Vexen, his voice light with sarcasm. "But _you_ should visit Twilight. Have fun. Enjoy yourself. Bring back something colorful."

The expression in Xemnas's eyes did not match the rest of his face. Vexen, staring into a gaze that seemed to have forgotten all humor, gave himself a mental shake. "No." He searched for the rest of his eloquent suspicions; finding nothing left save for a stunned emptiness, Vexen could offer only the truth. "I... don't trust you on your own."

Xemnas gave him a thin smile, one that Vexen could not tell was pleased or not. "Good. You shouldn't. It's your turn to learn the gate, though. Go with Xaldin."

The words bordered on a direct order; still, Vexen lingered, fingers sliding down the doorframe, hooking themselves in the wooden carvings of the latch.

"Come with me." It was a strangely desperate demand, one that he almost did not recognize as coming out of his own mouth - as if it had escaped from the dusty corners of his chest, as if he had wanted to say the words years earlier to drag Xemnas out of his self-imposed solitude. It would have been better than endlessly running after the other man, always wondering, always in chase.

Yet Xemnas only shook his head, turning the teacup around on the saucer as he regarded the liquid within. "No," he insisted softly, lips twisted in a smirk. "For something like this, I think everyone should have a chance to go alone."

* * *

Slinking back to the library felt far too much like a retreat for Vexen's tastes. But he had not known what else to say to Xemnas - or what even _could_ be said anymore. Xemnas was more ruthless without his heart. He no longer retained the easy gullibility of Xehanort; instead, a reckless idealism had replaced that innocence, merging with the insanity that Darkness had brought. The result was a changed man, and Vexen did not know how far Xemnas would go in pursuit of his goals, no longer restrained by the boundaries of his former life.

Whatever new horizons coaxed Xemnas onwards, Vexen could no longer guess.

Xaldin was still waiting in the library. He might have guessed the nature of Vexen's absence, for he made no comment as the scientist drifted back into the room. Only when Vexen had finished pulling on his new coat did the lancer speak.

"Are you ready now?"

The lancer's effort at monotone was unexpectedly welcome; Vexen was able to focus on the zipper of his jacket rather than split his attention mounting a verbal defense. "Where's Xigbar?"

Xaldin finished checking his boots with a flick of his thumb; hooking a waistpouch on his belt, the lancer straightened his jacket to hang flat, making clean lines out of leather stitching as he prepared for the trip. "He's waiting for you on the other side. He'll mark the destination you're meant to find. Just don't mess up."

Before the scientist could retort, Xaldin swung his hand forward, planting his knuckles in Vexen's back.

He stumbled forward, balance scrambling for orientation even as the air stretched open into a vast maw. The ground vanished underneath his feet. With a garbled cry of surprise, Vexen tumbled into the gate, and through it.

The air was cool around him as he fell. An old memory of fear flickered into place in Vexen's mind; it dissolved before the scientist could catch it, and he refused to let the Darkness take its place. Xaldin's punch had not carried the full force of an attack. It had pushed him through the doorway without harming him, which meant that the portal could not have been a trap.

His guess was proven right a moment later when his feet struck a hard surface, landing with enough impact to send a twinge through both ankles. Beside him, he could hear the scrape of Xaldin's boots. The void was brighter than he'd expected: black bands scorched the air, mixing with glimmering patches of white light to form bastard zones of grey. Dusk-marks rotated endlessly in criss-crossing spirals. And the floor - the floor was _nothing_, nonexistent, suspending the two researchers like flies on a sheet of polished glass.

Vexen dropped to his knees, overcoming the sense of vertigo by flattening his hands against the invisible ground. Xaldin had not bothered to supply him with gloves; the chill seared his skin before he glossed it over with a protective layer of frost, negating the temperature difference and regulating it to negligible.

Far below them, the darkness waited.

If he had expected mercy from the lancer, he should have thought twice. Xaldin was already halfway down the corridor, steps meticulous and patient as he crossed the invisible walkway. Vexen hunched his shoulders as he ripped his gaze away from the void below. "Where's the way out?"

At the words, Xaldin paused, and then gave a lazy wave towards a sullen mass of energy lurking in the distance. "Somewhere in there. You'll have to find it."

Reminded of similar demands in an alleyway filled with snow, Vexen pulled himself to his feet, resurrecting his dignity as best he could without tripping on the long hem of his jacket. "And how am I supposed to accomplish a task like that?"

"If you can't find a method," was the languid reply, "then I'll just leave you here forever."

The ultimatum was clear enough. Steeling his nerves, Vexen strode quickly down the passage, refusing to look down. He did not turn his gaze away from the blackness ahead; if he could pretend that nothing else existed, he could also pretend that he was not traveling in a void between worlds, dangerously poised to be lost forever if anything should go wrong.

His confidence carried him across the tunnel more quickly than he expected. All too soon, the mass of untamed Darkness lurked before him; it stretched taller than he had expected, high enough that it dwarfed enough the two researchers like children. The mass filtered through the end of the tunnel like a particularly vicious soot cloud, settling across the pathway and drifting along the sides.

When the lancer did not give any indication of what he was supposed to do, Vexen gritted his teeth and lifted one hand to touch the shadows.

The energy swam around his fingers, content to ignore his presence. Swallowing down a curse, the scientist gathered the remnants of his concentration. _Find Xigbar_, he ordered it mentally, attempting to form a picture in his thoughts of the gunner - and failing. The scarred face constructed itself and then shredded to pieces within his mind, morphing into stray impressions of the day, of the shifting halls of the warehouse. Of Xemnas, of slender fingers on a teacup, and endless riddles in a room of stolen books.

"It won't do us any good to travel back home," Xaldin interrupted sharply. "Focus."

Steering his concentration with an effort, Vexen wrestled his control back over the Darkness, repeating the gunner's name to himself until the whirling energies pooled themselves into an oval gateway, simmering with dormant power. The edges wavered, and then stabilized; Xaldin gave it a long, suspicious stare before finally giving his approval with a nod.

The door spat them out halfway down a hillside.

At first, Vexen's senses tried to scream nonsense to him, claiming that there was a huge spotlight glaring along the skyline; then he realized it was the sun bobbing on the horizon, the _sun_, returned after so many years. His eyes started to water as he attempted to look at it, aware of the risks for damage, but unwilling to believe it was _there_ until he could absorb every inch of heat through his skin.

He did not resist when Xaldin took his arm, guiding him roughly along the path until they crested the hill. Xigbar was already there, leaning against a fence that traced a wooden outline along the edge; he gave both of them a lazy wave of a hand by way of greeting. In the distance, the town stretched out in irregular squares of streets and stone buildings. A train chugged its slow way along the tracks below, its smoke mixing with the pastel clouds in the sky. Everything glared with light. The brilliance left spots floating on Vexen's sight, and he could not focus on any single object for long without it beginning to sting.

The noise of village life simmered up from between the buildings: children shouting back and forth, shopdoors chiming, homes preparing for family dinners.

The air smelled like grass and bread dough.

"Welcome to freedom," Xigbar grinned. His gaze lingered on Vexen, and the next question that came was strangely hungry. "What do you think?"

Vexen picked his way gingerly across the hilltop, still wiping at his face with the back of his hand; he was suddenly glad that he was not wearing gloves after all, for the fresh leather would have stung his eyes. "I don't like being tested," he snapped back. "What am I _supposed_ to think?"

Any implied challenge rolled right over Xigbar's nonchalance. "I don't know," the man shrugged. "It's pretty nice out here." Then he crooked his mouth, tilting his head back to glance at Vexen over a shoulder. "Almost makes a person not want to go back, y'know?"

The air in Vexen's lungs seemed to thicken.

"Are you implying," he spelled out carefully, unwilling to leave any room for misinterpretation, "that we should leave the city?"

"It'd just be the five of us right now, but yeah. Xemnas doesn't know how to use the gates yet." Kicking his heels against the fence, Xigbar gave an exaggerated yawn, flexing his arms in a prolonged stretch. "Don't tell me you haven't thought about it."

It might have been the angle of the sun, or the black jacket, or the way that Xigbar's hair had picked up wide bands of grey, or the way that the gauze over the man's face was faintly stained red from the wound beneath; it might have been the dangerously casual note in Xigbar's voice that jangled against the scientist's nerves, screaming warning more effectively than any storm bell. There was a new sense of menace in the gunner's body, one that Vexen was not certain he had ever seen before, not even when Xigbar had been intimidating Aerlen so long ago.

Further down the hill, Xaldin sprawled in a lazy, feline curve of muscle. He had not brought his staffs, or any other sort of weapon, but he was watching Vexen as well, and the fingers of one hand were running along the railings of the fence.

Suddenly, Vexen realized how foreign the two of them both seemed, dressed in black leather instead of lab coats. Small changes could make such a vast difference between the Nobody known as Xigbar and a student named Braig. Even smaller ones could turn a friend into a stranger.

"No," he lied at last. "I haven't thought about it once."

Xigbar pushed off the fence in a long roll of muscle, sleek as a hunting cat, and chuckling. "Yeah. I knew you'd stay. Just had to keep you honest," he chuckled, clapping a hand on Vexen's shoulder and giving the scientist a rough shake. It was the kind of greeting that might have been between equals - but Xigbar's grip stayed in place, tightening in what might have been a warning. "If we've made it this far, we'd better stick together, eh?"

Vexen did not laugh. He pulled away from the gunner with an angry yank of his arm, attempting to ignore the urge to rub the spot that Xigbar had touched. "I question why you felt the need to doubt me in the _first_ place," he snapped. "I detest being played with like that."

Any affront went unsoothed; Xigbar did not apologize. "You don't like it now, just think about what it'll be like in the future." Turning away in a twist of one heel, he vaulted onto the fence with unnatural, spellborn grace, perching like a bird on the metal bar. The folds of his jacket draped down in a leather waterfall off his hips, trailing down over the rails. His hands laced themselves together in a weave of black fingers. "I had a talk with Zexion recently," he began. "We're changing, Vexen. Even if we don't realize it up front, things are different. If we're not all dedicated to this," he warned, "we're gonna fail. And there's no way I plan to be the weak link in this chain. How about you, Vexen? Think you can handle it?"

The questions were fat with implication. Sour-mouthed, Vexen refused them all, all save one, which he picked at with merciless precision. "Do you really believe our cause to be lost before it has even begun in earnest?"

"_I_ believe," came the drawl, as Xigbar straightened up, spreading his arms like a giant crow in silhouette, "with these kinds of odds, it's just going to get a lot worse from here on out."


	10. Chapter 10

Twilight Town was kinder than Vexen expected. The attack on Xigbar had left the scientist with impressions of danger lurking beneath pastoral idyllics, and sinister threats waiting in every alleyway. Instead, he was surrounded by normal, average human beings. Children played freely in the streets, laughing to each other as they dodged around trolleys, tossing game balls at each other; shopkeepers discussed the daily news at leisure through the windows of their storefronts.

It was a gluttony of existence. Birds pecked at breadcrumbs. The trees that dotted the roads were all heavy with leaves, rustling with every stray wind. Farmers brought fresh produce in along the roads, trading chatter with the workers who tended to the construction of the town, and none of their words spoke of war.

At first Vexen wandered, remembering occasionally to put the hood of his jacket up. Other times, he forgot, leaving his identity exposed as he walked through the roads, allowing his destination to change with any passing whim. No one commented on his appearance. The only reactions he earned were occasional nods of greeting from the inhabitants of the town; they were placid and unworried, showing no signs of hostility to the foreigner in their midst.

By the time he had made his way back up to the hillside, half-expecting Xaldin to be there so that the gateway could be summoned home, the sun had completely vanished over the horizon. Night had faded in gradually as the long evening finally relinquished its hold; one by one, the stars were beginning to slip into view.

Xigbar was bouncing a child's toy between his fingers. Vexen recognized it as bearing a loose resemblance to an _oh-yoh_: a wooden orb bisected by a string that was used to direct its spin. Normally the toy was played by bobbing its weight off the string. Xigbar - ignoring that option - had hooked the line between his forefinger and thumb, twirling the _yoh_ through the air around it like a demented hummingbird.

When he saw Vexen, the gunner flicked the wooden _yoh_ in a loop that bounced it off its string entirely and sent it humming in a long orbit through the sky. "You saw the kite seller down by the train station?" he grinned. "I think she'd make a great test subject."

"It should not surprise me that you are already looking at these people as resources," was Vexen's retort, as he limped across the hilltop. His feet were giving him warning aches; it was beneath his dignity to hobble, but Twilight Town's geography was much different from the flat roads of their own city, and the excess walking had left him sore. Grudgingly, the scientist added, "Besides, she's less than suitable. The hatter further down the lane is a better choice."

"We aren't going to be taking _anyone_ from Twilight," was the rough interjection from across the field; glancing over, Vexen caught sight of Xaldin trudging up the path, weighed down by several courier bags that had been slung off one shoulder. Another paper sack nestled in his hands, and the smell of fresh bread and beef seeped out as the lancer set it down on the nearest bench, pulling out a wad of paper napkins from the top. "Only a foolish predator hunts so close to home. Didn't we learn that lesson already once, Vexen? We wouldn't have earned nearly as much suspicion back in the Bastion if we had only harvested subjects from more remote villages."

The _yoh_ came hurtling down from the sky, the perfect curve of its descent marred by the conflicting touch of the gravity spell upon it. Without looking up from his search, Xaldin caught it deftly in one palm, and then pitched it in the direction of Xigbar, followed by a sandwich wrapped in waxed paper.

A small container of red sauce was placed next upon the bench. Xaldin fished around in the paper bag for several more minutes before he finally produced a second sandwich, checking the scribbled writing on the outer flap before offering this one to Vexen. "There's no one in Twilight who could become a proper Nobody," the lancer continued, as Vexen picked at the wrapping and discovered the order had included tomatoes. "If there was, they'd already be Dusks by now, what with the Heartless being so close. No, I think we'll be picking victims from other worlds." A third rustle, and Xaldin finished digging out his own meal, balancing a dish of noodles as he settled down to eat. "Which means we already have to start looking further than Twilight."

Xemnas was waiting for them in the library when they returned. Vexen's portal had been a shaky affair; twice, it had begun to collapse just when he had thought that the energies were stabilized, earning him several nasty looks from Xigbar's direction. The Darkness was a strange thing to manipulate now, touching it directly rather than in passive rapport - the energies moved through him without claiming anything, without invading his thoughts and leaving a sultry residue behind.

Dinner finished itself along with business. Xaldin had ordered a sandwich for Xemnas as well, and the man dissected it on the table as they worked, picking occasionally at strips of ham and lettuce rather than eat the thing properly. Of the gathered supplies from Twilight, Xaldin had picked up several more medical kits in various conditions, ranging from straight potions to dried herbs mixed with bandages.

"No signs of the Keyblade Master," the lancer intoned solemnly, hefting out a stack of journals from one bag and setting them neatly on the table beside the kits. "Everything seems stable."

Xigbar had only a few lines to add, tossing a thin folder on top of the pile. "Same as always, Xemnas," he reported, slinging himself into a chair and trundling the _oh-yoh _down one leg with his fingers. "They keep asking if the jackets mean something, which kinda club or organization we belong to."

"_The_ Organization, naturally," Xemnas quipped back. "The only one that matters, at least. We'll be the ones to uncover the secrets of the heart and soul. Don't tell them that part, though."

It was Xaldin who pointed out the obvious: "There are only six of us."

"Then I suppose we'd better start recruiting then, hadn't we?" Xemnas commented dryly, and then pushed his chair back from the table.

The Dusks were their first scouts, ranging through countless worlds that the Darkness had infected. Despite instructions to bring back captives, the attrition rate was high; fresh victims attracted the Heartless, and attacks between worlds became common between the two forces. None of the Shadows rebelled openly in the city while any of the researchers were watching, but neither did they obey, and their swelling mass rolled through the streets daily.

Of the few humans that survived the transition through the gates, almost none of them had the courage to question their captors, preferring instead to huddle in the empty rooms away from the Dusk guards. Only one gathered the strength to fight back, launching himself at Lexaeus with a bellow; the larger man neatly stepped aside, kicking his assailant's legs out from underneath him and whistling for the Dusks.

All of them died the same way though, falling prey to the Heartless that were allowed into the rooms to feed.

Debate raged through the six researchers, as each tried to discover a particular method that led to reliable Dusks coming from Heartless victims. While the simpler types seemed to flourish as the experiments progressed - seeping out of the alleyways of the city, squirming out of Twilight's back roads - nothing more complex appeared to greet them, and nothing that even began to approximate a human guise.

They selected individuals for solitary examination, spending entire days focused on those single targets. They filled up entire hallways of prisoners, practicing deaths in bulk. They had a scare on the fifth week when five of the captives collaborated together in an escape attempt, getting as far as the dining hall before they ran into a startled Xemnas.

Afterwards, once the mess had been cleaned up, and Xemnas had stopped blinking owlishly at everyone with a befuddled sort of homicidal malice, the subject of security was bounced back and forth. The basic rooms of the warehouse were not designed with prolonged confinement in mind; Aerlen proved that frequently, wandering periodically whenever Lexaeus was not watching her. Even if they had secure cells, the researchers still lacked the basic tools needed for measuring and containing Darkness, and the absence of such resources was a crippling restriction.

When the third month passed and the only thing they had accomplished was to thicken the local population of Dusks, the attention of the group finally returned - far overdue, by Vexen's count - to the need to build formal laboratories to continue their work.

Initial suggestions focused on the empty rooms in the wing closest to Lexaeus's garden. When the redhead outright refused to let anyone else get near his own research, citing numerous incidents in the past where student mischief had resulted in monstrous vines and singing plants, Xaldin volunteered his practice yard and the balcony adjacent as an observatory level.

Munny, they discovered, was used in more places than simply Twilight, mixing with the local currencies in trade. The value markings left on each color of the disks were universal enough to be accepted, even if the barter rate fluctuated depending on which town they visited. Some realms preferred jade over metal, and others used paper only. Sometimes the coins were called pennies, or bills; sometimes they were gold, but all were eventually stamped with the color marks of munny, measuring their trade value in a universal currency.

"And that's how Twilight incorporates everything without a fuss," Zexion decided aloud, sweeping one hand across the dining room table. In a rare display of unification, all six of the researchers had bothered to meet up for breakfast again at the same hour. "And quite likely how they don't question the nature of these 'out-of-town' visitors they keep getting. Something in that Town is wrong. They're too accustomed to transitory events. Xemnas," he added, turning to the side, "why?"

The object of his inquiry lowered his book. "I haven't thought about it."

"I need answers," Zexion warned softly. "You haven't spent time on a single one of our test subjects, so what other lead could you be chasing?"

Xemnas only smiled, caressing the creased travel guide in his lap. The faded lithograph on the cover showed the open face of a bakery, displaying its wares along a cobblestone street. "Only that I want to find Ivalice. Isn't that explanation enough?"

"_If_ it still exists." Lexaeus's stern warning sifted back to them from across the room, where the redhead was engaged in the careful watering of a tray of seedlings in-between bites of his toast. "If the Dusks have brought back material from that world, then the Heartless must have visited there as well. There might be nothing left to travel _to_."

The warning could have been anything but, judging from how Xemnas drew in a long breath, savoring it as he let it out slowly. "I will find a person who desires individual self-awareness," he promised aloud, tapping his fingers on his book in a pattering rhythm, "even though doing so might pain them. I _will_ find a person who wants to survive, enough that they will accept becoming a Dusk. Just watch."

They adjourned quickly after that, each of them heading off to pursue their own tasks. Zexion had taken it upon himself to continue charting the various worlds and compiling a list of governments on each. Vexen, on the other hand, had found a pleasant niche in ordering the Dusks to recover laboratory supplies from any world they found themselves at. The results varied wildly. Some days, he would visit his storage rooms to discover dusty beakers, stained with the residue of various chemicals. Other days, his rooms would be full of stuffed birds, or tuning forks. Once, he opened the door to discover a pile of dried leaves that looked better suited for Lexaeus's botany work, and clearing _that_ mess had taken the rest of the day.

It was when he woke up to find an entire wooden block puzzle on his bed that Vexen decided to relocate some of the less useful materials - hopefully with the intent of dropping them on Zexion's head. The irregularly shaped cubes clacked against each other as he gathered them in their twine netting; why the Dusks had ever thought he would be interested in such a thing, he had no idea, but at least they were following his directions with a minimum of fuss. The situation could have been worse; the Heartless had always made only token obedience when he had still retained his heart, all too willing to slip away from his control at any sign of inattention.

He wandered up the main stairwell and down the halls, swinging the bundle in his hand as he walked, until he finally pushed out into the crisp air of morning on the observatory balcony and into the middle of a disjointed experiment.

Zexion and Xaldin were already there, having ferried breakfast with them. The smell of hot muffins and toast mixed together on the air, tickling Vexen's stomach into a sour grumble. Xaldin was poised on the edge of the railing, gathering wind around his hands and compressing it down to raw energy. He did not greet the scientist; Vexen, watching the air shape itself into solid curves of force, remained silent as the other researcher worked. Tinged with Darkness, the summoned energy drew purple blades around the lancer's hands, glinting with the sharpness of razors. They drew straight lines that melted into curves, from curves into circles, and collapsed back into flat angles once more.

It was Zexion who interrupted the tableau, speaking up as he patiently slathered honey across the top of a white-grain muffin. "We must have gone well over a few dozen of them by now." Finishing one last swipe, he waved the knife in the direction of a thick stack of folders lined up on the table. "Xigbar got sick of the last batch and let all the Heartless in at once. It was over within seconds."

Vexen spared the dossiers a disinterested glance, making directly for the younger man instead. He debated the use of planting the blocks in the middle of Zexion's plate; choosing to refrain, he simply lowered them with a wooden clatter on the nearest chair, hoping their presence would suffice to encourage the other researcher to claim them. "Then where are their Dusks?"

"All around us," answered Xaldin simply, continuing to unspool threads of wind. "You see them every day."

"No," Vexen snapped, wondering why the lancer was bothering to be obtuse. "The ones that look like _people_."

A brittle laugh came from the long-braided man, and he stepped away from the railing, collapsing the elemental energy down to a narrow rod which quickly dispersed into a scattered breeze. "There _are_ none," he announced. "None, except for the six of us."

Daunted despite his confidence that the claim was a lie, Vexen snorted. "That's impossible. How many worlds have the Heartless claimed by now?" Rolling his eyes, the scientist plucked a forlorn-looking apple off Zexion's plate and examined it for blemishes, turning the fruit around in his palm like a snowglobe. "And you mean to tell me that of all six of _us_, and none of _them _made it through? Statistically," he repeated, "_impossible_."

"Impossible has a habit of becoming very true. How many human Heartless have we seen? Not estimations," Xaldin cautioned, padding over to the main work table and leaning his hip against it. "Give me concretes."

"None," Vexen started to answer grudgingly, and then closed his mouth for a moment. Then, "One. Xehanort's."

Point confirmed, Xaldin gave a satisfied nod. "The form of his Heartless and our Dusks might have been related to our previous experience with the Darkness. But anyone well versed in the Darkness would be unlikely to join us in the future. After all," he pointed out grimly, leaning forward to claim his own cup off the table by coaxing it into the air with his fingers, "why would _anyone_ voluntarily agree to ally with the same people who helped bring Heartless to their world?"

The dilemma was sobering. True enough, Vexen had not thought about that angle; he had not expected much whenever he was listening to Xemnas describe the future, caught up instead in the maddening need to make sense out of the other man. Xaldin's words were a sobering dose of reality in contrast to idealistic rhetoric. "Does this mean you don't have faith in Xemnas's ambition?"

A shake of the lancer's head was the only answer. "By your own definition of us, none of us can have faith in _anything_ anymore." He lifted his cup closer to his mouth, still levitating it with a finely-laced control over the air around it. "I'll believe in what I can make happen. No more."

The door to the warehouse creaked slowly; it flapped back and forth as the person on the other side tried to juggle with his burden, and then finally inched all the way open. Lexaeus's boot wedged through the gap as a lever, gradually introducing the rest of the man as he hefted a large crate in his arms.

Vexen did not offer to help the other researcher, only watching as Lexaeus shuffled towards the tables. "And those are the remains of our failed attempts?" he could not resist jibing.

Lexaeus's smile was hard as he muscled the box onto the table and deftly cracked the knuckles of his fingers to relieve their tension. "Are you expecting bones in our backyard, Vexen? You should be more experienced than that. The ecology won't support it yet," he added blandly, turning away to pop open the lid of the crate and reveal thick ring binders inside. "Whatever the Heartless don't take disappears on its own, so our experiments are still easy to clean up." When Vexen did not move away, hovering instead like a haggard vulture over a plague victim, he spoke again. "Xigbar's going out today, if you're restless. You can go with him if you want - it'll be quiet here until Xemnas gets back."

Vexen almost let the words roll by without registering them; then he caught at the sounds just as they had begun to fade from the conversation. "He left?"

"He said he was going to go find Goug Machine City three days ago." After a long moment, Lexaeus set down the binder he was examining. "He didn't tell you?"

"No."

The redhead gave him a long look. The silence was thick with implication. Then one of the garden Dusks wriggled up to the table, its flat paws tucked neatly in a penitent's clasp. It shied away from Vexen, but sidled closer to Lexaeus, instinctively gravitating towards its chosen master. The taller man tilted his head attentively as it shivered and whispered in communication; then, frowning, he dropped the folder in his hands and headed directly for the railing, giving no explanation for the sudden wariness.

Curious, Vexen followed.

It was not hard to determine the direction of Lexaeus's focus: the man was leaning on the balcony rail and staring intently down the street, his mouth set in dispassionate line. Near the warehouse entrance, a slender man was crossing the road - Xemnas, judging from the pale hair and purposeful stride. A second figure limped along behind him, dressed in rags so stained, they resembled rotting flesh.

"I don't think it matters now, Vexen," Lexaeus observed quietly. "It looks like he's already found something interesting to bring home."

* * *

By the time they tracked him down, Xemnas had made his way to the dining hall. Surprisingly, he had not made any effort to conceal himself away from the other researchers; unsurprisingly, he had chosen to prioritize breakfast over tending to his new prize. The prisoner stood several feet away, eyes lowered as Xemnas searched through the leftovers scattered across the table, both of them engaged in their own private thoughts.

The man seemed relatively young - at a glance, Vexen would not have considered him much older than Lexaeus - but hard living had left its stamp on his bones, leaving the muscles scrawny and withered. His hair was a matted swath of dark strands, oily and uncombed. Thick manacles had been latched around his wrists, hammered into a metal yoke that connected the fetters; a chain led down from the collar around the man's throat, further limiting his movement. It was a crude leash, and one that clearly had been tested over the years, judging from the number of scrapes staining the iron.

All five of the other researchers had begun to drift in, attracted by the stern pallor that had surrounded Lexaeus as he had searched through the halls. Zexion was still yawning, nibbling on one of the muffins from his breakfast; his hair was rumpled all along one side, and he let it hang down over his face without brushing it away. Xigbar had not been far from the practice yards, occupied with training his cadre of Dusks. The dining hall found them all clustered in its doorway, regarding their newest visitor with varying levels of suspicion that bordered on distaste.

Lexaeus was the one who offered the initial inquiry, allowing the faintest of stresses to color the first word. "_What_ is this person, Xemnas? And why is he so," the redhead paused, searching for any possible tact that could be salvaged from the situation, "_unwashed?_"

"I found him in a prison," Xemnas provided helpfully, shoveling a cluster of fresh berries into a small bowl, and then sniffing warily at a small pot of cream. "I don't think they gave him many opportunities to bathe."

The next question came from Xaldin's direction. "Why is he still chained?"

"Oh, I tried to take them off." Showing no signs of concern, Xemnas added a draught of cream to his breakfast, soaking the berries methodically in the liquid. "He hit me."

This answer did not seem to satisfy the lancer's interest; if anything, Xaldin's eyes narrowed, and the fingers of one hand flexed. He skipped over any attempts to wrestle more information from Xemnas directly, choosing instead to address the second choice in the room. "Stranger," he announced briskly. "Explain yourself."

Under the matting of greasy hair, the prisoner gave a twisted smile. As he lifted his head, Vexen saw a jagged line tracing over one cheek, the scar tissue badly healed into what resembled lumps of flesh-colored wax.

"You see before you one who is cursed." The words seemed to scrape his throat on the way out; he winced around them, offering his own condemnation in a formal dialect that seemed better suited to poetry. "The marks serve as warning, that all might know the danger. I am scarred once for my violence," he rasped, angling one finger to trace a diagonal in the air, left to right, "and twice again, as a creature unusable." This, right to left, crossing an invisible X. Chains rattled. He lowered the yoke of his hands. The nails on his fingers were horned and yellow; his feet were bare, and a clot of open sores painted the right heel.

Zexion had edged closer, joining Xaldin in inquiry; judging from the flare of the younger man's nostrils, Vexen knew that Zexion was gathering an array of sensory impressions of their guest, none of which could be pleasant. "What kind of curse?"

"The bane known as _berserker_ taints my blood." The stranger's sudden grin was bright, hungry; it slipped from Xaldin, to Xigbar, to Zexion, roving with the easy confidence of a predator on the march. "Are you familiar with that doom? It belongs to those who would kill without warning, little man - as _I_ will kill you, should these shackles be taken from me. It matters not that we share no quarrel," he husked, growling over each word. "The anger in my blood refuses any comfort save your extermination."

Zexion blinked, but did not take a step away. "Charming."

The stranger grimaced in what might have been a polite expression, were it not so twisted - then he gave a sudden roar, snarling like a beast. He lunged for Zexion with his fingers hooked into wiry claws, chains rattling, the metal bar of his prison-yoke shifting into an impromptu weapon.

But Lexaeus was already prepared.

Stepping forward deftly, the redhead gave a swift crack of his fist against the stranger's skull. The motion was too fast for Vexen to follow, but the results unfolded with slow clarity. Almost immediately, the man slumped forward; his inertia propelled him onwards even as his muscles began to slump, until he collided with Zexion and sent them both sprawling on the floor in a tangle of rags and pale limbs.

Xemnas lowered his spoon, looking vaguely affronted. "You might have damaged him," he protested mildly. "Specimens like these aren't exactly sold on every street corner, you know."

"He's still expendable." Giving the limp body of the stranger another shove, Lexaeus knelt down to examine the heavy manacles. "Why did you bring this one home, Xemnas?" he blurted, stalwart patience worn thin by doubt. "Less violent criminals couldn't suit your tastes?"

Fishing out another berry from the dish, Xemnas popped it into his mouth and chewed reflectively. His tongue flickered between his lips, neatly cleaning off his fingers. "Because _that_ is what a heart should be like," he defended. "Filled with rage."

"Filled with _lead_, you mean," Zexion complained mildly from the ground. "He's heavier than he looks."

Breaking out of his observations, Vexen folded his arms. "So this is the product of all your efforts in search, Xemnas." He stepped forward towards the table; when Xemnas glanced up, Vexen took advantage to glare. "_This_ is your Ivalice. Are you proud?"

The other researcher gave a careless shrug. "It's progress." A harsh groan came from the floor as Lexaeus rolled the stranger to the side; deliberately careless, the redhead dropped the prisoner's head on the ground, not bothering to cushion it from a second impact. Xemnas smiled. "I don't think I got the directions to Goug quite right. Next time will be better."

"_Next_ time?" The arrogant confidence by which Xemnas spoke did nothing to settle Vexen's nerves. "And what do you plan to do with the one you've brought back now?"

"What else?" Sliding out of his chair, Xemnas scooped up his napkin, wiping off a drop of cream from his lips before discarding the cloth, tossing it aside on top of his empty bowl. "We'll feed him to the Heartless tomorrow morning, just like we do with everyone else."


	11. Chapter 11

They scheduled the execution before breakfast. Xemnas's reasoning was that doing so gave them more time to eat without having to rush the meal; it would be otherwise impossible to start the day's affairs without tying up loose ends first. No one argued. It was a slipshod way of hastening a person's death, but none of the researchers spoke of their prisoner as human, and Vexen - for once - agreed with them on that decision.

Rage had not saved them in the Bastion when the Shadows came. If anything, strong emotions had only attracted the Heartless to the laboratories. Anger had helped them convince Xehanort to follow paths of unexplored Darkness, but emotions had not proven themselves to be a consistent rule for the creation of Dusks, and Vexen doubted they were the key to the process.

If Xemnas believed that an uncontrollable berserker would serve their cause, then Vexen wanted no part of that folly.

The skies threatened rain. Vexen, frowning at the murky clouds overhead, wondered if they would ever have a dry season. They had all brought along umbrellas after taking one look at the skies. Xaldin was holding Xemnas's, blue plastic matched to gold. Vexen's was battered from the last time he'd accidentally stepped on it during a tentative experiment with magics; the plastic webbing had been splashed along one side, so that he looked as if he had been assaulted by a vat of grape jelly whenever he unfolded it.

They assembled in the old practice yard. Behind them, the warehouse lurked, monstrous with bloated additions and extra rooms. Dusks flitted past the windows like tattered curtains. Half the wing was still stocked with test subjects from various worlds; the only saving grace they had so far was that none of the subjects lasted long enough to require special care.

Lacking any formality, Lexaeus dropped the stranger in the middle of the yard.

Chains clinked in weary protest. The prisoner lifted his head groggily, a purpling welt decorating the left side of his face in a swollen mass. No one had bothered to offer him a means of cleaning himself; no one had touched his shackles either, and Vexen wondered, briefly, if a Dusk had been ordered to bring by even a glass of water.

_No_, he decided at last. Too much of a waste.

Striding forward, heedless of the danger, Xemnas crouched beside the prone figure on the blacktop tar.

"I have an offer for you," he began softly, reaching down to wrap his fingers through the grimed chain connecting the collar to the rest of the yoke. His jacket had been left partially unzipped; it spread over his thighs and onto the ground in a black wave, exposing a flash of his belly like a slice of chocolate pressed between velvet. "Are you interested in being freed from your bonds?"

At the words, the prisoner's spine gave a jerk, but Xemnas had not finished talking.

"This city has a way of testing those who are frail of heart." Idly, Xemnas dropped the chain and trailed his fingertips along the metal links, one by one until he reached the dark tangle of the other man's hair and buried his hand in the filthy strands. "If you can last long enough to escape from these streets - if you are strong enough to survive the Darkness - then I promise you will finally be able to control your emotions at last."

The stranger blinked, uncomprehending. His voice was an aching rasp, offering delicate speech with a murderous slur. "You speak the truth about letting me go?"

Xemnas's smile did not betray the lie. "That's one way to call it, I suppose."

Suspicion tinted the muddy crimson of the prisoner's eyes. He shifted, bunching his limbs beneath him, but he did not rise from the ground. "Give me the rest of your terms."

Leather whispered; Xemnas arched his wrist, stroking a hand over the man's scalp as if he were petting a dog. "If I am correct, and you are able to control your rage, then you will serve me. If not - if I am wrong," he added, settling his weight back onto his heels, arms dangling in a slouch, "then you are free to do whatever you want."

"Anything?"

"Yes. Anything," came Xemnas's sleek confirmation, "that your heart desires."

The stranger grunted.

The sound must have been interpreted as agreement, for Xemnas reached once more for the chain. A red glow flared to life over his fingertips. Vexen found himself wrinkling his nose at the hum of power in the air: odorless in the same way that hydrogen was, and twice as dangerous. It did not prick his skin like traditional incantations would, nor did it have the oily tang that he had come to associate with shadow. If the energy was a type of magic, then it was not an element he had ever summoned before.

Beside him, Zexion had come to the same conclusion. "Not Darkness," the younger man was marveling, eyes narrowed as he studied the spell that Xemnas was weaving. "That's not Darkness at all."

The restraints split with a series of docile clanks, the metal cleanly sheared without any pressure twisting the links. The spell left behind no trace of heat to identify its nature, nothing save the _absence_ of destruction standing as signature to its power, and the moist, damp stink of unwashed skin freshly exposed to the air.

The prisoner did not look back as he bolted, propelling himself forward in a clumsy lunge before he'd even managed to climb fully to his feet. They watched him disappear into the streets, stumbling, crashing on occasion to the ground when his balance faltered. His hands were still not working properly; he held his arms close to his body, cushioning his falls on one shoulder and hip. It was an animal's mindless escape, but more: it was the flight of a creature that knew better than to limp away from the monsters it was leaving behind.

A light drizzle began to patter from the sky.

One by one, the researchers opened their umbrellas, clustered together like paid mourners after the funeral had gone, or plastic mushrooms in the rain. Maroon and grey plaid for Xigbar, dark blue for Xaldin. Only one color was bright, picked with total disregard for the gloom of the city, and it shone with a reflective glow underneath the changing streetlights.

Xigbar spoke first.

"That was a terrible thing to do to him, Xemnas."

The single yellow umbrella shifted, and Xemnas turned around, regarding the rest of the group with a child's curiosity: amoral and serene. "Do you really think so?"

The gunner pursed his lips in an exaggerated frown before giving up with a shrug. His own umbrella shed an uneven trail of droplets as he twiddled the handle between his fingers. "Nah. I just figured it was appropriate to say. How fast do you think he'll die? Think I should sic some Dusks on him too, just for variety? We _could_ take bets."

Xemnas's response was a sharp laugh, offered with no restraint. "He will win no matter what the odds," the man promised. "He will fight through the loss of his heart, and whatever is left behind will be a creature that we can use. He will run far," Xemnas continued in a whisper, turning back towards the roads, privately rapt upon whatever vision he saw there, "and he will fight and die and prove me _right_."

* * *

Despite his convictions, Xemnas did not wait for the prisoner's return. He was the one who moved first from the line, trotting back inside the warehouse and folding up his umbrella with brisk twists of his hands. He shed tiny puddles as he climbed the stairs to breakfast, merrily chatting away about various trade habits of one world he'd visited: natives who used beads as a form of munny, carved from ornate shells and bone. Vexen watched dumbly as the man dug a handful out of one pocket, scattering iridescent cylinders in a careless pile next to his plate and fork. It might have been a king's ransom for all Vexen knew, rolling off the table like multicolored debris to be lost underfoot in the carpet.

No news of the prisoner made itself known to them for weeks. Tests resumed on the subjects that remained imprisoned in the warehouse. Xaldin's Dusks were obedient as well-oiled clockwork, fetching victims from nearby worlds and parading them in ragged lines for Zexion's patient analysis. Subject was matched to country, and from there to emotional and physical analysis. It was an exhaustive effort to gather so much raw data for processing, and the few times that Vexen visited during Zexion's working hours, he was reminded of the monotony of his student days.

Vexen could not resist the periodic smirk whenever he passed Xemnas in the halls, but the darker-skinned man did not seem perturbed by any chance of failure.

Routine settled back down with a minimum of fuss. No subject survived the Shadows; none of them returned as anything other than faceless Dusks, mingling with the local population that was already under command. For a time, it seemed that failure was the permanent standard, impossible to avoid, and consistent in its finality.

Vexen had nearly forgotten about Xemnas's test subject until one afternoon in the central library. The weather had found a rare dry spell - no rain for a week, which was long enough to be considered a drought by the city's weather patterns - and all the windows had been left open, allowing air from the street to trickle in. The scientist had just finished dividing up Zexion's latest batch of victims into appropriate world clusters when the door pushed itself open, and Lexaeus trudged through.

"He's come back." When no one responded, the redhead sighed. "He's in," was tacked on pointedly, "my _room_."

The news brought Xemnas to his feet. Before anyone had a chance to voice any concerns, he had snatched the pen out of Vexen's hand and bolted for the door. Zexion only watched Xemnas's departure before stifling a deliberate yawn and returning to his book; Xigbar gave a shrug as he set down a heavy chunk of metal onto the table, caught in the middle of dissembling yet another of his firearms.

Lacking any other instrument to write with, Vexen relented to curiosity and followed out the door.

He trailed behind Xemnas as all three of them made for the garden-side of the warehouse. The explanation was simple enough to be anticlimactic: Lexaeus had been visiting Twilight Town on an errand to find another pair of shovels for his soil cultivation project. He'd seen the stranger wandering past the store window just as the purchases were being tallied up, lost as a newborn. There had been no struggle involved, no wild fights of berserker's fury. Lexaeus had not even had to call his Dusks for backup.

Lexaeus's portion of the warehouse also doubled as a storeroom for any materials that needed to be kept out of the weather, segregated from the open soil of the gardens. Clay pots were lined up in the halls, tagged with cramped block lettering to distinguish which world the contents had originated from. The smell of earth was damp enough to hang on the air, strong enough that walking through that section of the warehouse felt like exploring subterranean tunnels, lit only by faded yellow bulbs.

"If you could relocate him, I would prefer it." Lexaeus's mouth was a wry twist as they walked. "I put him on my couch for now, but Aerlen sleeps there when she doesn't want to go back to her own quarters, and I think she might complain about the company."

Interrupted from any internal opinions on the state of the city's geology, Vexen stopped dead in the hall, turning a disbelieving stare upon the other man. "You let her stay with you?"

Lexaeus only regarded him steadily. "Why not? She's harmless."

Xemnas had already moved past them both, pushing through the door at the far end of the hall and forcing Vexen into a jog to catch up.

The man had been laid out to wait for them, a small blanket spread across his stomach. He looked human enough, as far as Vexen could tell: two arms, two legs, with the appropriate number of feet attached. His limbs looked stiff enough that they probably contained the right amount of bones as well, unlike normal Dusks, which wriggled everywhere instead of walking. Otherwise, he lay like a corpse on the cushions, muscles lax, head half-slid off a pillow.

He was awake, though he made no motion to greet them - nothing save for flickers of his eyes as he slid a half-open gaze from face to face, staring at them all with a mute wariness. The shade of his skin looked even paler than before; the rest of his appearance had been similarly altered, as if an artist had taken partial liberties to disguise his body without bothering to do a thorough job. His hair had been bleached from black to a sky's blue, and around one tangled set of locks, it seemed as if the man's ears were pinched at the tips, pointed in the same fashion as an East Garden villager.

A large part of the filth had been erased from his body. He was not perfectly clean, but the stench of the prison had lessened distinctly, and some of the more obvious grime had been washed away from his face and hands. The rags of his clothing still clung to him, though they looked even more drab; Vexen would have not put it past the man to have simply jumped into the nearest body of water without undressing first.

All in all, Vexen judged, it could have been worse.

It could have been better, too.

Xemnas came to a halt at the far end of the couch, having circled it entirely so that he was standing with the back of the cushions safely between his body and that of the subject. "Do you feel better now?"

The man's head jerked up at the question, as if he was unable to resist reacting to Xemnas's voice. "Yes." There was a pause, and then, "I... I cannot tell if the anger has gone completely."

"A memory."

"No," the stranger said, fast enough that he repeated the word, appearing to struggle with the concept. "No, I don't know. The rage is different now. Quieter. Distant."

"Better?"

"Yes."

"Then our bargain still holds," Xemnas replied softly. He leaned forward, toying with a loose string on the cover of the nearest pillow, pulling it tight before smoothing the puckered fabric back down again. "What were you called?"

It seemed an odd question to ask after the fact, after they had already separated the man from his heart, but the stranger did not flinch away from answering. "My given name is - "

"No," Xemnas interrupted pleasantly, repeating his demand with the same implacable finality as a glacier tomb. "What _were _you called?"

Hesitation claimed the stranger; his gaze dropped into his lap. "Isa," he offered eventually, and the sound was stilted. "My sister... she called me Isa."

Xemnas's smile was a mirror of canaries and cream. "Isa, is it? That's a good name to lose. I suggest you start forgetting it now."

* * *

"And _that's_ how you do it," Xemnas informed the rest of them proudly at lunch. The newest Nobody was regarding his meal with the dull attention of an invalid; one of the Dusks had brought over soup, and the man was taking the occasional, hesitant bite, as if trying to remember how to have an appetite at all. "Do you see how simple that was?"

"You want us to select psychotic criminals," Zexion deadpanned back. "A stunning plan. Let me get right on that."

"It still gave us _results_." As if completely unaware of the drastic change in behavior of his test subject, Xemnas plucked a dinner roll off a tray and tore it in half, dunking the smaller portion into his own soup. "He will be our seventh. _Saix_, once known as Isa. A diviner on his world - or close enough that the difference is negligible."

"_Divination?_" Scattered memories slid around Vexen's sparse recollections, dredged up from ancient Bastion afternoons. He had heard of the practice before, and had dismissed it each time; superstition could rarely be measured by even the finest instruments, and Vexen had picked up a skeptical view of destiny. "And how are rabbit bones and blue tea going to help us, Xemnas?"

The focus of his disdain merely shrugged, dipping the other half of his bread to sop up more broth. "What we know of science and magics has not made a difference so far. Perhaps we need a something new."

"Something new?" Vexen parroted back with a sneer. "An impotent, useless _fool_, barely stronger than a Dusk?"

He was about to say more - ready to spew an entire diatribe on the lack of suitability for _anyone_ new to be included into their ranks - but then Saix glanced up, his gaze acutely focused for a split-second. The gold rings in his eyes contrasted sharply against the red as he stared at the scientist, and Vexen fell silent rather than force the argument.

"Just listen to him _try_ and justify the whim," the scientist grumbled to Zexion later over his second cup of coffee. Xemnas had abandoned Saix at the table to finish the meal, citing other business to attend to; none of the other researchers had attempted to speak to the fresh recruit, casting him sidelong glances and making efforts at roundabout conversation. "He should just save us all the trouble and admit he sought out this particular challenge simply because he was _bored_."

"You sound surprised." Zexion was systematically destroying his breakfast through precise dissection; he had procured a small knife from the kitchens and was removing the skin off his grapefruit. The discarded rinds went to the side, carved into intricate jigsaw pieces that lined up perfectly together. "This is Xemnas - did you expect anything different?"

His coffee cup was almost empty. Tilting it up, Vexen waited for the last drop to slide down onto his tongue, heavy with cream. "It wouldn't be so _irritating_ if Xemnas hadn't achieved success so easily," he muttered defensively around the rim, tasting porcelain and sugar. "I refuse to believe he got that lucky on a first attempt."

"Which is like Xemnas as well," Zexion parried deftly. Setting the mutilated grapefruit aside, he reached for his cinnamon roll and peeled a long strip off the outside, folding it up into a neat bite. After chewing and swallowing, the younger man added, "He performs the irrational. We analyze it. The only complaint I have about the whole business is that Saix needs a week's worth of baths. The man reeks like rotting flesh."

They dispersed from the room in clumps. Lexaeus had taken it upon himself to handle the newest Nobody since Xemnas had already disappeared, and he was occupied in coaxing the man to follow along. Xaldin simply opened a portal and left for his business straight from the breakfast table, snagging a fresh loaf of bread from the cutting board as he passed.

Aerlen was waiting outside in the hall.

She was hanging back against the walls to let Xigbar pass, but when Vexen and Zexion stepped out, the girl darted forward to pluck at their sleeves. She gave a hasty glance at the blue-haired figure trailing along behind Lexaeus, and then hissed, "He looks _miserable_. Do you really believe he lost his heart?"

Lexaeus smiled, but only half his mouth moved. He picked up her hand and settled it over his chest, letting her fingers spread slowly across the weathered linen of his shirt. "What else could this ache be?" he asked her simply, with unwavering conviction. "Without a heart, what else might we lack?"

The girl's mouth wavered, and then firmed as she looked up at him, closing her grip until her fist sat over his chest, pulling the fabric of his shirt tight. "I think you have feelings. You just don't remember what they are."

"Keep telling yourself that, if it helps," Vexen interjected, pushing off the wall and gesturing her to follow. "Lexaeus has more important business to attend to."

Aerlen cast a frown in his direction; she did not release Lexaeus's shirt either, hanging on with the grim determination of a tick. "Lexaeus - "

But the redhead was already moving, carefully disentangling her fingers with his larger hands. "Later, Aerlen," he insisted firmly. "Unless," came the mild suggestion, "Vexen wants to take care of our latest comrade?"

Faced with two choices that were equally distasteful, Vexen went with the known evil.

"Lexaeus doesn't push me around," she protested when he gave her a rough shove to get her walking.

"_Lexaeus_ is nice," she persisted when he used his knuckles this time, hard against her spine.

"It's a lie," Vexen shot back as they trundled down the hall. She was too proud to drag her feet, but compensated by letting her heels strike the floor with extra force, so that a steady _bang bang bang _echoed along the corridors around them. "A mere falsification. You allow yourself to fall prey to illusions, and those illusions tug at _your_ emotions - not ours."

She gave a growl of irritation and spun to face him, planting her feet firmly in the middle of the hall. Her bangs were growing long again, untrimmed and untended; the whites of her eyes were rimmed with thin crimson lines. Whether the cause of her bloodshot appearance was sleeplessness or tears, Vexen could not tell, except that she seemed too angry for either.

"How can you be so certain?" she lashed out. "If you didn't know what you were missing, would you even realize it was your heart at all?"

He tried taking an authorities step towards her; Aerlen did not move out of his path. Vexen was forced to fold his arms and glare. "Cease your attempts to provoke me," he ordered icily, with as much disdain as he could manage, hoping it would suffice to shoo her away.

The command only generated a malicious smile. "It's not _my_ problem if you're having difficulties, _Vexen_," Aerlen purred, playing with the syllables in his name until they mocked through implication alone. "_You're_ the one who's supposed to be keeping an eye on me."

"Lexaeus will understand if I tell him that you are dead," he retorted. "Of that, I can _assure_ you - and before you think to challenge me otherwise, let me remind you that he'd need a heart before he'd be able to _grieve_."

She hissed at him like a wet cat before whirling away, a sound too brittle for true anger, and too broken for scorn.

He let her go, watching as two Dusks parted automatically from the hallway guards to follow, keeping her under their constant, silent surveillance. From past experience, he knew at least one of them would send word if she tried anything rash; from past experience again, he knew that she would stay within the boundaries of the warehouse, avoiding the streets where the Shadows roamed.

_Gentleness_, Vexen reminded himself to note in his journals later, was a habit as weak as kindness. If he did not have the interest for it ahead of time, he could not be blamed for its lack.

* * *

_Gentleness_ was a word which haunted him all through the next day; it brought to mind old arguments, ghost whispers of the past. It hovered in his thoughts, repeating the lunch meeting again and again, so that Xemnas proclaimed his triumph a dozen times over and Saix fumbled his spoon a thousand.

It pulled Vexen out of his solitude, nagging at the scientist like a splinter buried underneath a callus. He followed it along the stairwells and across the warehouse, developing the shape of it as he walked, drawing the bulk of it out of his mind until it waited, fully realized, demanding to be released.

The smell of vanilla was in the air as he stepped out onto the second-floor observation balcony, mixing with something richer - cream, Vexen decided after a sniff. An erratic breakfast had been set out on the sidetable, composed of three plates and assorted trays of food from the kitchens. One plate was still mostly full, laden with scrambled eggs and a fat, flaky biscuit, set beside a brimming pot of strawberry jam. Another had been partially cleaned; the knife had been set neatly crosswise across the empty spot, and Vexen recognized the habit as Xemnas's.

A distinctive yellow umbrella was occupying one of the chairs, handle hooked over the armrest. No rain threatened, but the skies were as cloudy as ever, leaking only a thin trail of starlight through the haze.

The man himself seemed content to lean on the railing, cradling a cup in his hands. As the door to the balcony creaked open, he shifted his weight with a lazy twist of his muscles, turning so that he could deliver an impudent stare in Vexen's direction. "Are you sure you want to come outside today instead of hiding inside your work?" he teased.

Vexen could not tell if the question was in jest or not; Xemnas's tone rang just shy of sarcasm. He advanced doggedly towards the table instead, under the pretext of hunting for a late breakfast. "You've stolen all the best food from the kitchens for your breakfast," he called back, knowing that the claim was transparent, but using it anyway. "What else is there to eat?"

Xemnas's words made him think about turning away; for that reason alone, he pressed forward gingerly, testing each step as if he expected Shadows to leap out from the floor and ensnare his feet. When nothing attacked by the time he reached the table, Vexen finally gave himself room to relax. He poured himself a draught of what smelled like spiced coffee, adding a liberal dose of cream to the mix in hopes that the flavor would not be bitter enough to make him regret sampling it.

Dunking a small spoon into the cup in case he would have to stir up the dregs, Vexen then took the risk of joining Xemnas at the rail.

On the blacktop below, Saix was practicing.

The diviner was working through a series of methodical stretches with Xaldin's assistance, mimicking the lancer's patient steps as the two of them shadowboxed across the yard. Xaldin had dug out two wooden poles for them to practice with, and Saix was holding his as if he expected to bludgeon someone with it by force, rather than skill.

Vexen broached the silence first, leaning against the railing casually, as if meeting privately with Xemnas was something normal rather than awkward. "Did you see how Saix's features changed?"

"He's suggestible," Xemnas offered with a shrug, not missing a beat. "To the Darkness. Or maybe, to hearts."

"He resembles you a little more now."

That brought a slight, amused twist to the corner of Xemnas's mouth. "Maybe he wants to be like us."

"Or maybe," Vexen accused, feeling the conversation stretch into dangerous territory, "you know more about the creation of Dusks than you're letting on."

"It's a little late to be suspicious of my motives now, Vexen." With that, Xemnas calmly wrapped both his hands around his cup and brought it up to his lips, taking a long sip - longer than was necessary for a simple drink. Even when he finished swallowing, Xemnas did not lower the cup, keeping it pressed instead against his chin.

"For someone who doesn't have a heart, Saix certainly seems devoted to you." Taking advantage of the opportunity to work past the other man's defenses, Vexen rallied his next volley of questions. "Did you plan that? Was that why you picked someone you thought becoming a Nobody would help - because you wanted a slave who would think you could do no wrong?"

Xemnas's smirk returned, but it was a wan affair, and he glanced away with a dry laugh. "It's... not like that, Vexen. Saix sees me as a savior. It'll pass."

"Didn't Master Ansem say the same thing about you?"

The honorific stung the air as it came out.

Xemnas's throat flexed as he swallowed hard. He lowered his mug at last, settling it on the thick metal of the railing. "I should get angry with you." Despite the mellow roll of his voice, the man's jaw was set hard, all false humor gone from his face. "I should, but I can't, because I lack a heart to become angry _with_. Emotions no longer control me. So I won't."

"Then neither should sentiment," the scientist snapped. "You haven't explained your favoritism towards him - or why you were so confident that he would survive."

Reaching out, Xemnas swiped the spoon from Vexen's cup without asking first. A drop of coffee clung to the spoon, turning Xemnas's tea cloudy as he dunked into his own mug, oozing a fading aura of cream through the liquid. "I told you that I found him in a prison?" When Vexen gave a brief nod, Xemnas continued. "In that pit of human filth and suffering, he was the only one brave enough to walk through the door that I opened. He was the only one with a powerful enough desire to accept the way out, regardless of the cost."

If the tale was meant to impress, the scientist found it lacking. The spices in his coffee tasted sour, and he felt his stomach cramping around the flavor. "Courage, then? Spare me that nonsense. If courage was enough, we'd have hosts of dead imitation heroes piling up on the doorstep."

"Are you suggesting his faith in me was foolhardy?"

"I'm suggesting that his willingness to follow you blindly indicates a propensity towards _suicide_."

Xemnas graced him with a smile; this one was more relaxed than his previous expressions, coming closer to an imitation of reality. It was a quick, forgiving grin, born of familiar banter between peers. "I've been thinking." Continuing to swish the borrowed spoon around in his cup, Xemnas pulled it out just long enough to give it a tap on the rim, and then let it slide back in with a _clink_. "Zexion suggested that, after living long enough apart, a Nobody might remain themselves while their Heartless lose even more identity. Unlike the Shadows, we have no other greater force pulling us together. _We_ are independent."

Falling into the lull of conversation despite himself, Vexen tried to take another mouthful of his coffee. "Is this more of your anima and animus nonsense again?"

Xemnas went through the motions of waving his cup in small circles, using the drama of the gesture to stretch out his reply. "The heart is weak. You see it in the Dusks - they are far more sentient than Heartless. You see it in our latest experiment - Saix is stronger without his uncontrolled emotions. The heart may be an underlying motivation for the body and soul, but it is the _Nobody_ which should truly reign, and the heart exist only as a resource."

"So, should we seek to reclaim our old hearts, or only assume new ones?"

A sigh was the first response. Xemnas let his posture slump against the railing, watching the practice match continue to unfold. "I don't know yet. Zexion feels that even if we have the option of coming in contact with our old hearts, we may not be lost. But I don't like that risk. Nobodies have nowhere to be. Until we can fix that, we are doomed to dissolve into nothing. I won't let that happen," he vowed softly, speaking now to nothing in particular, his voice wandering soft around the syllables. "Xehanort desired the source of all worlds in pursuit of knowledge he had lost. I have a much different task to accomplish. I must find that source, and then I must force it to grant life to our world."

Realizing too late that Xemnas had begun to drift again, Vexen cleared his throat. "Enough of this rambling," he bit out. "Answer me. Are you truly satisfied with everything as it is now? Completely?"

Below on the practice yard, Xaldin signaled a halt. Panting, Saix looked up towards the balcony; when he noticed Xemnas watching, the man made an unsteady bow.

Some of Xemnas's bravado faded at the gesture, weakening back to something mortal again: mortal, and aware of the madness of command. "I was giving him options," he managed eventually. "It wasn't... it isn't like Ansem at all."

Vexen nodded readily enough, and then offered the one phrase that had been brewing in his mind ever since he had first noticed the parallels: "Tell me if you ever plan to restore _his_ powers one day."

Xemnas dropped his teacup.

The scientist escaped before he could see if the other man was angry or not, before he could remember that such things were impossible now - or should be.

He half-expected that Xemnas would seek him out to exact some manner of revenge, but the evening came and went, and left him in silence.

* * *

As the activity in the warehouse grew, Vexen's workrooms became all the more inviting to the scientist's nerves. He spent more and more day with his doors closed, moving between the interlocked chambers like a particularly sarcastic mole. Outside, he could hear the sounds of footsteps passing by on occasion, the routine vibration of the other apprentices - plus one more, a hesitant step that he learned to recognize as Saix's.

Uncaring of world exploration, disinterested in training legions of Dusks, Vexen chose instead to focus on his own resources. Others could prance about the gates; no amount of casually travel would magically foster physical improvements in their testing apparatuses, which were pitiably sparse. Within a week, Vexen managed to recover a spectrum analysis device, an auric preservation tube, and a working coffeemaker. All were badgered to function to his specifications with little effort, and he arranged them with satisfaction in designated sections of his workrooms.

Having the best resources also meant that Vexen was suddenly plagued by the researchers who had not bothered to lay in their own supplies - namely, all of them. While each of the six had their own private study quarters, only Vexen had expended the time to connect the rooms near his office to create several different laboratories. All too soon, the demands started flooding in: soil analysis testing from Lexaeus, blood typing from Zexion, and a flashpowder request from Xigbar.

Chemical beakers were the focus of his first personal projects. He began his work by collecting and combining the simplest compounds to make certain he was handling the proper substances, and not imitations that had been given similar labels - similar, but lethal if mixed in the wrong proportions. Chemistry was a science of miniature disasters that could quickly flourish into monstrous, and Vexen had a rich lexicon of various mistakes in his past that he did not have any intentions of repeating. Gathering a storehouse of prime chemicals was his highest priority, and for a while, Vexen entertained himself with the careful, comfortable tests that he had learned by rote as a child: oxides, acids, and sulfates.

Xemnas brought Saix by on occasion, requesting measurements and analysis on the newest Nobody. Each conversation ended with a wary, uneasy stare from Vexen's part; Xemnas, as always, seemed unperturbed, and completely unaware of any friction between them.

Slowly, the creeping decay of the city came to a halt and then reversed. During the months as Saix adjusted, the streets grew more stable, mirroring the progress of the Dusks. At first, Vexen refused to believe Xemnas's excited claims, but when the other man continued to badger him, the scientist sighed and let himself be dragged out into the city.

Roads that had once crumbled away had somehow become restored overnight. Some streets had even begun to grow on their own, widening out with extra lanes, or additional stoplights that hung merrily over interlacing crosswalks. With each fresh crop of subjects fed to the Heartless, it seemed as if the city flourished all the stronger, as if it were a night flower feeding off the dead.

They met in the library on the subject, dragging themselves out of their own projects for an afternoon spent in debate. Zexion had the most casual attitude towards the issue, giving a sleepy, careless wave of his hand after all the evidence had been presented; a lingering headcold had been moving through the warehouse ever since Xigbar brought back a virus from Twilight Town, and the youngest researcher had been ill for days. "Let the Heartless take as much as they want, then." He paused long enough to give a thick sniff, covering his nose in what looked like an aborted sneeze. "If it gives us more Nobodies, I can't see why it'd be a bad thing."

Xaldin slapped his hand on the stack of folders on the table, the leather of his glove resembling a fat ink puddle on the papers. "The Darkness has always existed before, but not like this. Across numerous worlds I have visited, the Shadows are moving in organized packs. Almost," he added, giving a hard rap of his knuckles for emphasis, "as if someone is directing them."

Zexion was unfolding a handkerchief out of his pocket, shaking it out before tucking it into neat quarters again. "And who would be doing that?"

"Who indeed," Xaldin threw back, and then looked pointedly towards one corner of the room, where one researcher was sitting alone. "Your thoughts, Xemnas?"

All throughout the discussion, Xemnas had been poised like a statue in his chair, chin braced against the back of his hand, mouth obscured by his fingers. The unified attention of the other researchers seemed to recall the man; he sighed as he leaned back against the chair, letting his arms hang off the sides. "When you think about it," the man began slowly, "a universe controlled by Darkness is just as bad for us as one filled with Light. The Shadows will not tolerate our presence either, if we can destroy them by simply reclaiming our errant hearts. If it is our Heartless who are engineering this new campaign, we must be prepared to meet and then defeat them."

"You mean," Vexen corrected deftly, "reclaim them."

Xemnas was silent for a time. Then he dropped his hands into his lap, interlacing his fingers and turning the palms to face the ceiling.

"We'll think about what to do after we find them all again."

Twilight Town, too, became a matter of debate. It was a stray world, hovering between Light and Darkness like an unfinished equation. No one could agree on what to do with it. Xaldin suggested a takeover; Zexion, a bit of subterfuge to control the inhabitants. With at least one Keyblade Master having traveled through Twilight, it was impractical to make it their primary home base, but they could not discard its uses either.

Research went by slower. With most of the initial questions out of the way, Aerlen had lost her value as a novelty, and not even Lexaeus was submitting new information about her physical and emotional makeup. Devoid of attention, the girl's behavior continued to slide towards erratic. Some days, she would remain friendly for all of the time that Vexen would see her; other days, stray comments would leave her glowering on the far side of the room, refusing to even look in his direction.

Surprisingly, she continued to visit the labs despite being assigned elsewhere; Vexen would have assumed that since she'd been freed from obligations to attend him, she would have no reason to return. Unlike Lexaeus or even Xigbar, Vexen had not bothered to pretend to tolerate her company. He offered nothing but scorn.

Vexen pinned the whole business up to the impracticality of having a heart, or possibly of being a young girl, neither of which he had any basis for understanding in his current state.

One afternoon, he caught her borrowing Xaldin's coat. It was too big on her, but she refused to give it up, no matter how many times he ordered her to behave. When he tried to wrestle it off her by force, she broke an entire table of glassware by scrambling across it to escape him, and nearly set a stack of notes on fire when she kicked over a burner.

Xaldin could not travel across the worlds without the disguise, so Vexen sighed eventually and ordered the girl to wait while he visited the lowest floor of the warehouse, wandering through the rooms to find the extra supplies which had been brought back so long ago. It was a strange thing to visit the ground level again, attended only by Dusks. The researchers were gradually moving further and further upstairs - Zexion was now residing on the third floor, and Xemnas's offices had slid even higher overnight without anyone's notice - and the familiar pillars and boxes of the storage rooms they had once taken shelter in were rapidly becoming forgotten.

When he finally returned, dust in his hair and a disgruntled conviction that he had just wasted several valuable hours of his life, Aerlen was paging through dossiers of failed subjects. Already, his careful attempts at organization were ruined.

"Does this mean I can use the gates now?" she had asked warily upon seeing the gift.

"No."

The verdict should not have been a surprise; still, Aerlen scowled at him and snatched the jacket off his hand, fumbling with the material as she tried to figure out which sleeve was which. Vexen watched as she peeled off Xaldin's coat, snatching it up as she discarded it on the floor. He waited just long enough to decide that he had picked the right size before striding to the hall, handing off Xaldin's jacket to the nearest Dusk with orders to bring it to the lancer immediately.

"Next time," he ordered as she tried to smooth down the leather over her legs, "borrow Lexaeus's jacket. You behave much better when you're around him. I wouldn't want a squealing child inflicted on anyone else otherwise."

She scowled, but the expression did not last once he finally finished zipping up the coat for her and arranged the silver hood chains dangling on either side of her neck. "Stop treating me like a little girl. I'm almost," she spread her arms, displaying the length of the sleeves as the cuffs settled on her wrists, "as tall as Zexion now."

"That's not hard," Vexen pointed out. "He's stunted."

When she did not leave, perching on the edge of the table so that she could continue to read the subject reports, Vexen only rolled his eyes and pulled up his own workstool. Zexion had begun a rudimentary color-coding system based on world similarity and racial type; most realms had a dominant slice of population, but others were mixed as casually as letters in a child's alphabet. The system had a complex gradation of ranks for each. Zexion had included a brief note referencing variables of temperature and hue, but Vexen could not tell why one purple was supposed to be different from another, let alone what each was intended to represent.

After trying to puzzle out the guidelines for half an hour, the scientist finally gave up and glanced over to see what was occupying Aerlen.

The girl had claimed the top folder off his stack of unprocessed notes and was flipping carelessly through the pages, allowing some of them to slide out onto the table and scatter out of order. At least three of them had already mixed together, judging from the cover sheets.

Picking up the next dossier in line, Vexen used it to make a warning flap in the girl's direction. "Do you see how many people have been sacrificed already, Aerlen? Right now, this warehouse exists solely through the destruction of others - the very people who are listed in the documents on that table." He gave the dossier another snap. "Your clothes, your breakfast, your bedroom all exist from the deaths of innocents. Doesn't that knowledge bother you?"

"No." Unaffected by his claim, Aerlen lifted one dark eyebrow and turned the folder in her hands upside-down entirely, propping it like a wilting manila tent over the scattered pages. "Should it?"

"_You_ have a _heart_," he protested. "Does the thought of lives in chaos not affect you?"

Any form of sympathy from the girl was deftly hidden beneath an arrogant toss of her chin. "Not one bit. We have nothing to do with each other. If I was the one dying for them, I'm sure they wouldn't even stop to spare a coin for my grave."

"A quaint description," replied a sleek voice, moving through the room to lodge directly in Vexen's nerves. "And one to bear in mind for the future."

Vexen had left the main door ajar after passing off Xaldin's coat, and now as he snapped his head around, he saw the visitor who had taken advantage of the opening to slide inside. Xemnas stood framed in the rectangle of hall light; incongruously, a paper cup of ice cream was nestled in one hand, while the man took tiny scoops off the top with a flat, red spoon.

The illusion of leisure did not lull Vexen. "Shouldn't you be with your playtoy, Xemnas?"

"Oh, pardon me," the younger man quipped back with a ruthless smile. "I hadn't meant to interrupt any private time with _yours_."

Xemnas's appearance had cowed Aerlen as none of Vexen's complaints could not; all her rebellion had faded away at his entrance, leaving the girl as colorless as ice. "I'm not anyone's," she whispered bleakly, sliding off the table abruptly into a chair. Her lower lip had the fullness of a pout, but lacked the protest.

"Things that belong to no one will find themselves lost. Take it from me." The lamps which were arranged about the room drew arcs of light on Xemnas's jacket as he walked forward, tracing the angles of his body. He was wearing his own workcoat that day, but had left the front entirely unzipped, revealing a colorful vest in matted greens and greys underneath. The clothes were not familiar; they might have originated from whatever world the man had recently been visiting, but all they served was to give the man an appearance of a foreign traveler as he strolled past Aerlen, assessing her with a sly smile. "Are you asking to be considered lost?"

She shook her head once. "No."

"If you don't behave yourself, Aerlen, you'll find yourself terminated early," Vexen snapped, distracted as Xemnas wandered through the labs. It was impossible to concentrate on the girl with Xemnas around; Vexen could not spare the attention on them both. "It _could_ be arranged."

The folders made silken whispers under Aerlen's hand as she slid her fingers across the table, attempting to gather up the remains of the data she had so gleefully scattered. Fear struggled inside the bones of her face. Then she drew her composure back together by force, taking a deep breath. Her voice was almost steady by the time she spoke. "Do you really need more hearts than these?"

"I'd prefer proper holding containers before we make any concrete decisions in that direction," Vexen replied smoothly, trying to _will_ Xemnas away from the delicate precipitation trays on one table. "But we do need hearts. They're the only things that will save us against the scrutiny of the Light and Dark."

"Not that simply retrieving our own hearts will fix anything either," Xemnas interjected smoothly. To Vexen's relief, he finally turned away from the alkali tubes, strolling idly along the tables without dripping any ice cream on them. "The girl's powerlessness proves that. Maybe your suggestion has some merit to it, Vexen. Maybe," Xemnas mused aloud, "we _should_ consider this particular experiment terminated."

Debating the merits of posting a _no food_ sign on his door, Vexen replied automatically. "We're not finished with her yet."

"She's a _potential resource_." Digging another spoonful of ice cream out, Xemnas drifted past a set of saline beakers and stopped in front of Aerlen, regarding her with undisguised interest. "One that is better off broken down to her material components, since her current viability has been exhausted."

Glass rattled as Aerlen slowly eased herself to her feet, pressing against the table as she took a careful sidestep away from the man. "I'm a human being."

"You're raw parts," was Xemnas's languid reply. "You just don't realize it yet."

"There will be no deaths in my lab today, Xemnas." The refusal came out before Vexen could stop it, bordering dangerously close to a sneer. He stood up, straightening out his lab coat with a sharp sweep of his hands. "I will not _abide_ the additional mess. At least," he added sharply, "take it outside into the hall, _please_."

Xemnas continued to stalk the girl even as she tried to retreat further away, methodically circling to her left, then her right, like a hunting cat waiting for its prey to break cover. "So, you're giving me permission for her death?"

Aerlen's face was pale and tight. Her fingers gripped the edge of the table, spine tensed as she waited through the threat.

Vexen spared her only one glance before he took advantage of Xemnas's inattention; striding forward, he snaked his hand over the other man's shoulder and snatched away the paper container of ice cream.

Distracted by the theft, Xemnas paused. "What are you doing?"

"Another experiment." As the man scowled and reached out to recover the treat, Vexen interrupted with a crisp, "Are you angry?"

Reference to emotions stopped the other man's protest as neatly as if Vexen had struck him. "No," Xemnas claimed, taking a step back. "Just hungry."

"Impossible. You were present at lunch. In fact, I remember you eating two sandwiches."

Impatience began its slow crawl across Xemnas's face. "That may be true. Now give it back."

Another scoop, and Vexen swallowed down the frozen mouthful quickly, not bothering to savor the taste. A fleeting streak of strawberry lingered in the back of his throat before dissolving away. "So," he continued briskly, "you feel the emotion of want towards it? Interesting."

"No." Xemnas's smile had shifted from pleasant to terse. He gave an impatient shake of his palm. "Return it, please."

"It tastes very good," Vexen commented, ignoring the demand as he dug out another spoonful. "Where did you steal it from?"

"Vexen."

"Is there a _world_ of ice cream out there somewhere that you've been hoarding away from us?"

"_Even._"

The old name was enough warning; Vexen surrendered the treat back without further struggle, allowing Xemnas to recover the cup. It was more than half-empty after the scientist had ravaged it: a thoroughly successful assault, by his own estimations.

Xemnas gave a tentative frown at the contents before deciding that there still was enough left worth consuming. "Your pet seems to have escaped," he observed after an investigative bite. His voice was curious rather than disappointed, with the same mild anticipation as if he was about to suggest a dissection experiment. "Do you think she's afraid of me?"

One glance at the rest of the lab proved Xemnas's observation; Aerlen was missing, and the door stood wide and open. "If so, she's brighter than she looks. Why _did_ you come down here anyway, Xemnas?" The question dripped heavy with exasperation, and Vexen let it, now that any need to falsify patience had vanished. "You never seek me out on your own without some sort of ulterior motive."

He did not know what sort of answer he was expecting, but Xemnas finished off the ice cream with a smug flourish, taking his time to lick the spoon clean before responding. "Artificial Dusks."

Taken aback, Vexen stared. "What?"

"Make one for me." A brilliant grin opened across Xemnas's face, as if they had not just been at one another's throats a moment ago. "I want to see if you can."

The challenge both tempted and taunted; if Xemnas had come to Vexen first, then it might be interpreted as a sign that he had faith in the scientist's capacities. If this was a task assigned _only_ to Vexen, then not only did it afford recognition, but it also carried serious consequences if he fell short.

Yet, if Vexen succeeded, the opportunity would be perfect to prove his skills as a researcher, along with giving him a chance to improve the mechanics of his laboratories.

"For what purpose do you want them made?" he remembered to ask after a dazed minute, but Xemnas was already gone, and the laboratory was silent.

He scratched out a few initial ideas on what little he knew of the mechanics of Dusks, though his disinterest in the beings had kept him from gathering more than the most superficial of observations. Xaldin would know more, after his rigorous training of the creatures. Xigbar had experience that Vexen did not, since the sniper had gathered his own cadre of followers. Even Lexaeus had managed to collect his own specialized Dusks, whose bodies had mutated of their own volition in order to serve him better.

But no specific Dusks had attached themselves to Vexen. It was an unsurprising state of affairs; he had done everything he could to drive them away, everything short of murdering them, and even _that_ had not caused the Dusks to avoid Xemnas completely. It was no mystery why the Dusks had not singled themselves out for either of their attentions, but as far as Vexen was aware, they had also neglected the youngest researcher. If Zexion was engaging in some sort of private brutality, then perhaps the information would be useful for Vexen's studies.

Disgruntled, Vexen collected his sparse notes and climbed the stairs to the other researcher's quarters.

"Zexion," he began, occupied with scanning a list of Dusk qualifications as he pushed open the door to the man's office, "do you think you can come up with an easier filing system for - "

His voice strangled itself as he glanced up into the room.

Aerlen had fled to Zexion's quarters. _Why_, he did not know, but what she was doing there was clear enough: both her arms were slung over Zexion's shoulders, clinging to him in a hard embrace. She stood on her tiptoes, back arched as she pressed against his body. Impossibly enough, the man was _allowing_ her to touch him, _letting_ her twine one hand into his hair as his own fingers splayed across the small of her back. His jacket was unzipped and loose. Aerlen's weight had caused it to spread even further open, and the leather was trapped between her thighs and his.

As Vexen watched in disbelief, the younger researcher made a low, warm murmur of approval; Aerlen's head tilted intimately close, and Zexion's lips parted as he listened to the words she was whispering into his mouth.


	12. Chapter 12

He stood there for what felt like hours, bewildered by the sight of Aerlen leaning into Zexion's arms, of Zexion's willingness to let her touch him. It seemed as if Vexen had stepped through a portal by accident, into a surreal world where everything was upside-down, and completely lacking any sense.

He forced air through his throat to clear it, as if the taste of his own breath could bring him back to reality.

At the noise, Aerlen jerked away from the embrace, turning her head in a whip-quick motion towards the door. When she saw who was there, she seemed to cringe and tense all at once, muscles turning wire-tight and fingers hooking into claws on Zexion's jacket.

Vexen's skin felt tight. "What do you think you're doing?"

Before the girl could answer, Zexion was pulling his jacket shut and giving the zipper a tug. "I see this is a bad time," he observed calmly. Unlike Aerlen, he was neither flushed nor startled; the cool regard of his eyes was as unchanged as ever as the darkness gathered and coalesced into a gateway directly behind him. "We'll speak later, then, Aerlen. Take your time."

Aerlen did not follow him out; Zexion vanished before she could stop him, her fingers brushing the portal just as it closed shut. With Vexen standing in the doorway, she had no ability to escape without crossing in arm's reach of the scientist. Instead, she chose to hold her ground stubbornly. She did not flinch as he advanced, grabbing her shoulder roughly to drag her close to his own face.

"I knew it," he accused, catching the scent of something that had no right to be on her. "Cinnamon."

She did not even try to deny anything as she stared back at him, raking her hair through with her fingers. The attempt to straighten her bangs left them only more disheveled than before. The top two buttons of her shirt had been undone; by whose initiative, Vexen did not want to guess.

As he curled his lip, releasing her with a shove, she gave a short laugh. "Do you want to know how he tasted?"

He hit her.

There was no thought behind the sudden act. One minute, Aerlen was smirking - the next, she was down on the ground. There was a red line on her face; he'd turned his hand instead of using an open palm, so that striking her had been more like cuffing a dog. The corner of her mouth had already begun to swell.

As he watched, the tip of her tongue snuck out, absently checking for blood.

"Are you _upset_ with me?" she teased, parroting back the same questions he had run her through for months.

"No," he answered coldly. "You are trying for an emotional response. You will not get one." Unable to fully suppress the rest of the words, Vexen curled his lip in a sneer that made him almost wish he had a heart again, just so it could give him inspiration to say worse. "I go through the effort of deflecting Xemnas's attention, and _this_ is how you thank me? I should not have even bothered!"

"Then it's a good thing for me that you can't feel _sorry_ that you did," she drawled, and then she _was_ pushing past him, daring him to stop her through physical proximity alone.

He stood back this time, and let her pass.

* * *

When he sought Zexion out in hopes of an explanation - recollecting the shreds of his dignity despite the surprise that Aerlen had given him - - the man was missing from his personal libraries. The dining room was empty. Even Zexion's personal quarters held no insight to where the youngest researcher had gone.

He found Zexion eventually in one of the foundation chambers in Lexaeus's wing, a figure in silhouette and leather. The lights were turned down low, sending a dim yellow glow through the windows to the hall; they were the same low-hanging single bulbs as several other storage chambers, rigged to focus rays on specific plants. This room, however, held no visible saplings - only the look of a barren garden with insufficient sun for warmth.

Zexion's head was bent over the largest table, studying what looked like a model of the city's recovering geological structure. The man's jacket had been put back in order, neatly zipped with both silver ties lying straight. He was seated on a tall stool, overlooking a map that had been scored on a packed tray of soil, with tiny grooves and curves to delineate streets. Behind him on the walls, Vexen recognized Xemnas's painstakingly measured charts, stained with coffee rings and the man's wandering shorthand. Likely the project had been handed over when Xemnas's attention had moved on to other things. It was a miracle, likely, that Lexaeus had recovered the data at all.

As Vexen stepped into the room, shoving the door closed behind him with a kick of his heel, Zexion glanced up with one eyebrow crooked in inquiry.

Vexen wasted no time in throwing out his question: "Why?"

Zexion did not bother to play dumb. "Why not?"

The air was moist and ripe with the smell of loam. Picking the first reason out of the hundreds he could come up with, Vexen tried practicality. "The girl is a _child_ - "

"She's almost seventeen, Vexen." Zexion's words cut the scientist's tirade off at the knees. "Her birthday is in two of Twilight's months, if I have the calendars correct. I was _fifteen_ when I first pursued someone like that, back home. If anything, Aerlen's a little malformed in her social development - quite likely a result of being isolated with only us for company."

Stunned into silence, Vexen found himself hastily reevaluating the last time he'd actually bothered to spend effort in studying the girl. Yes, Aerlen was taller than when she'd first arrived, but that had been within predictable expectations, given proper nutrition. The habit she'd picked up of wearing her jacket constantly made it difficult to guess anything more about her figure than the usual specifics: arms, legs, eyes, a nose. He'd assumed that someone would tell him if there were any important physiological changes about her.

Apparently, they'd assumed that he would notice for himself.

He protested anyway, stung by the implications that Zexion knew more about the girl than he. "Aerlen has always claimed that she does not remember anything about her past," he pointed out harshly, "_including_ her date of birth. How do _you _know how old she is?"

Zexion offered him a level stare. "How do I know anything else about her? Her birthday is approximately in fifty-three days. One of her favorite books when she was a child was a story about a singing crab under the sea. She hates the rain because she was afraid of thunder when she was younger - which, incidentally, is why she overcompensates for it now by pretending she loves it. _You_ spend so much time with her," he added, picking up a small stylus and tracing it across the packed dirt. "How can this be a surprise?"

Trapped by the indignity of the position that Aerlen had neatly placed him into, Vexen turned his scowl towards the table and its network of impossible streets. "She's told me nothing."

"Not many people give her reasons to be honest." Circling the wavering outlines where an entire rotary had first dissolved and then rebuilt itself, Zexion started making a cluster of tiny X's that Vexen found himself hoping represented trees. "You're acting as if you caught me in a passionate lover's affair."

"It certainly resembled one!"

"She came to me in a state of distress." Amusement drew a fraction of a smile across Zexion's face, though he kept his gaze focused on his work. "It seems that you and Xemnas were planning to kill her?"

"Well, _yes_," Vexen blurted, seeing no reason to coat the truth. "Zexion, you _know _it is only a matter of time," he appealed. "She should be aware of that as well."

"She is." Digging the edge of the stylus into the soil, Zexion carefully carved down a layer before smoothing it flat again, so that the dirt was formed into tiny steps, further describing the shape of the city's irregular development. "A year ago, she asked me to save her."

"And what was your answer then?"

"That she should give me a reason to first. You walked in just when she had thought of something new to provide this time. I wonder what the two of you were saying to make her so desperate." He regarded Vexen steadily for a moment, the lids of his eyes heavy and low - a tell-tale warning that the younger researcher had decided to reconsider a specimen. "What did you _think_ was going on?"

"I haven't the slightest." Wishing suddenly that he had brought something with him, some sort of _proof_ that he could use to turn Aerlen back into a predictable little girl, Vexen shook his head. "For all I know, she could have been sharing my research notes with you."

At that, Zexion finally lowered his stylus. The metal made a soft, muted tap on the green felt of the table rim. "Why would I want to spy on your progress, Vexen?" he pointed out, not unkindly. "I'd just come and ask, if I wanted to know what you were working on."

Mollified by unargueable logic, Vexen settled on one of the wooden stools across from Zexion, hooking one of his ankles around the bottom rung. A rack of uncharted scrolls bumped into his leg as he attempted to get comfortable; the table had six convenient pockets strung around its outer rim, and hooks underneath to store pointer cues, which Vexen discovered by accidentally knocking one to the ground when he shifted positions. "None of this should be a surprise to her, Zexion," he repeated. "What has caused her to resort to such measures?"

The air was thick with the smell of dust; Zexion shrugged. "She's trying to find a place to belong before we get rid of her. You should be careful, Vexen," he added softly. "If the girl is panicked enough to resort to common seduction, then she may continue to search for a means to be heard. Desperation is shaping her personality. Perhaps it's worth keeping her alive for longer, just to study that."

"Will you plead her case to Xemnas?"

"No." Scooping out a cup of loose soil from the side-pocket to his left, Zexion sprinkled it over an intersection to form the start of a hill. "It would be more interesting to see what she does when she has a limited amount of time."

As reassuring as the answer was, Vexen found himself hesitant to leave the matter closed there. He prodded his thoughts until they spat out a kernel of what had been bothering him the longer he gave himself luxury to dwell on it. "Do you remember, when we were much younger - "

"No."

He heard the warning, ignored it. "One of the castle maids was absolutely infatuated with you."

Zexion drew in a breath. "Melinda. Her name was Melinda. She smelled like lavender. It was nothing."

"That's not what you said when I caught the both of you together."

"The past is gone." Leather hissed as Zexion slid off his stool, pacing over to a pouch of scrolls hanging in reserve on one of the walls. His fingers began to organize them deftly, turning the ends around to check the labels, and then splitting them into two different cubbies. "Why do you ask something like that now?"

_Why indeed_, Vexen wanted to say, remembering words in his journals, _gentleness _and _kindness _and _lies_. "I was put in mind of it when I saw you. Aerlen looks a little like Melinda." When no response came, he pressed further. "I remember you talking about that girl for weeks, back home."

A clatter of wood caught his attention back from where it had wandered, tracing the memory of castle spires out of the yellowed furniture of the workroom. Zexion had hauled out one of the pointer cues from underneath the worktable. As Vexen watched, he rolled the cue between his knuckles, abandoning the scrolls half-sorted.

"Haven't you ever been curious about what you can make a person do, Vexen?" Zexion's eyes were very flat as he regarded the stick in his hands. "Never wondered what their limits were, or how far they would go under the delusion of love? Melinda wasn't the first. I could have had more over the years. Emotion is the simplest coin, and no one is immune to becoming a victim - not Ansem, not Xehanort, not any of us in the end. Yes, infatuation was able to affect my heart when I still had one, and it affected others. I would be foolish not to use that knowledge now."

"Then it means nothing to you, what Aerlen is attempting?" Unwilling to wait for either confirmation or denial, Vexen demanded another answer. "You used to be so passionate about so many things. Has that all changed?"

"_Ienzo_," Zexion corrected, "used to be passionate. By definition, _I_ am not. How much of what you remember happened because it was the heart reacting, and how much was the soul? I don't remember why I liked Melinda. I don't like Aerlen either, but she's aware of that fact. I was mostly curious about what she would offer. What I found out was that she's a terrible bargainer. She'll improve on that next time, I think." He swung the cue around during his lecture, balancing the narrower tip on the rim of the table before beginning to walk slowly. The cue pivoted in his grip like the hand of a clock. "Now," he added suddenly, and the barest of smiles was back on his face, pitiless and unrelenting. "Here's the real question: are you jealous of me, or of Aerlen?"

Stung by the sudden query, Vexen bunched his fingers on the table rim. "Just what are you implying?"

Zexion kept pacing, refusing to turn his head and look at Vexen as he mused aloud. "A better question is, if our current emotions are only memory, you must have possessed jealousy to begin with. So which one is it? Me, or her?" Only when he had crossed entirely to the other corner of the table did he stop, the cue delicately poised on two fingertips, its weight evenly balanced. "No," he stated suddenly, answering his own question without registering any of Vexen's input. "It's always been about Ansem or Xehanort with you. Nice to see that some things haven't changed."

In the peculiar lighting of the room, Zexion's smile had developed all the way into a hard smirk. Vexen found himself recoiling from the demand implicit in that expression, the sudden confrontation that came from an angle he did not fully understand.

"If what you're saying is correct, then why does it _matter_ what we did in the past? How would it even relate to us now?" he thrust back, knowing full well that he was arguing against the very same point he had tried to catch Zexion with earlier.

But the other researcher had already reversed the designated stances, as effortlessly cyclical as one of Xehanort's school proofs. "Because memory is the only thing that keeps us from being Dusks, Vexen." Having caught the root of the logic that Vexen had not, Zexion twisted it further, unhesitating. "Memory is the only thing we have to prove we existed at all. And memories can be altered. We've proven that with Xehanort. Only through each other can we remember the truth, so we cling to it."

He surrendered from there by setting down the cue to hold up his hands, palms open, fingers spread in yielding. "I remember being interested in Melinda once. But now - now she seems so _dull_. I don't understand how I ever could have been interested in her at all. Nothing more than a waste of time."

It was a bleak difference; at least, Vexen was not certain how he should react to such a revelation. He settled with refusal. "You've changed, Zexion."

"Have I?" The snap of the question was brisk enough that Vexen's spine stiffened, recognizing the bent of the other man's voice even if there was no true emotion behind it. "Or maybe I've been this way all along. Are you still thinking of me as one of your fellow students? Ienzo is a Heartless," he continued, enunciating as slowly as if he were speaking to a young child. "And I'm Zexion, his Nobody. Zexion, the body and soul of the man you knew in the Bastion - but _not _his heart. For all it matters, we could be total strangers now. How well did we ever know each other, Vexen? How well did Even know Ienzo?"

Shaking off the potential implications of ignorance, Vexen kept his gaze steady. Zexion had not bothered to grow his hair back in all the years since losing their hearts; his bangs remained lopsided and long. Physically, the other researcher was not taller than his previous life - not taller or more muscular or different in his body language. It was all the same. But Zexion's logic was the same as well, as convoluted and painful to follow as it had ever been, leapfrogging along in tandem with Xemnas's thoughts and leaving Vexen behind.

That existing similarity was enough to give Vexen the confidence to challenge Zexion's verdict. "Is that honestly the case?" he asked quietly. "Are we all only chasing memories of each other, blindly hoping that they're real?"

For a moment, it looked as if Zexion would deny their association further; then the strange defiance ebbed away, deflating his shoulders, and he shrugged. "I hope not. Who else would I play Hotch Potch Pie with when I'm bored?"

* * *

Aerlen remained scarce over the next few days, leaving Vexen to focus on the new project that Xemnas had assigned to him. Creating an Artificial Dusk was not unreasonable; if previous experience with the Heartless was any indication, they needed the ability to generate additional troops at will, rather than processing a stock of victims and hoping for decent results.

Still - as much as Vexen did not like admitting it, he was not the only scientist who had worked on the project of Artificial Heartless. Several of their breakthroughs had been engineered by the team of Elaeus and Ienzo, fielding variants of biological compositions through the computers until they'd been able to determine which Heartless would be least likely to melt down into an acidic puddle of goo. Others had been by Xehanort alone, disappearing for hours inside his own head while he stared at blank sheets of paper, hours before reaching for a pen and scribbling out the single formula they'd need to start going again.

With Xemnas refusing to lend insight onto the Dusks, Vexen's resources were severely limited. Though he was reluctant to share his project yet with any of the other researchers, the chances that he would be able to solve the dilemma without even hearing their opinions were insultingly slim - but slim nonetheless.

A few days later, he finally climbed up the stairs from his laboratories and headed for the central library.

The_ Abandon Bookmarks_ sign had been moved from the door to the wall beside it, serving as a paper plaque that no one had seen fit to update. Inside, Xigbar was cleaning off a set of guns on the middle table, occupying all the space except for one corner, which had been taken up by a half-eaten sandwich whose lettuce had been neatly discarded on the side of the plate. Xaldin was ambling near the shelves, making slow circling paces while he thumbed through a battered book whose cover had been badly creased. A faint stubble dusted his face around his sideburns, neglected long enough that the tiny hairs were visible all the way from the door; Vexen, noticing this, was struck by the oddity that one of them still had to _shave_, and then wondered which condition should be considered the normal one.

"Hey, you'll like this one."

Xigbar grunted.

"Why," Xaldin recited, perfectly neutral, "did the pirate cross the roa - "

"I don't want to _hear_ it, Xaldin," the gunner snapped.

Vexen leaned in. At the interruption, Xaldin set the book down; Xigbar looked grateful. "How is the eye healing?"

"It'd be better without _some_ people making jokes. Speaking of which, whose bright idea was it to teach the Dusks to call us weird names? Was it Zexion? I've got fifteen munny says it was."

Settling in the doorway, Vexen folded his arms. The wood drew a hard crease up his back, pressing against the joints of his spine. "What do you mean?"

Xigbar twitched his fingers in the air, rotating his wrist in a lazy gesture that eventually ended up pointing past Vexen into the hall. "When I asked one of my Snipers to go do checkup on Twilight Town, it called me a Freed Shooter or something like that. Xaldin's have been calling him the Whirlywind Dancer. You know anything about that?"

The disrespect of names was almost humorous; then curiosity touched Vexen, and he frowned. "Did they? Was there one for me?"

"Yeah. The Chilly Cold Ice Cream Academic. How's _that_ sound?"

Vexen quirked an eyebrow. "Like a child's tale villain. And you say the Dusks only started doing this recently?"

Xigbar shrugged, spreading his hands in his best _I don't know or maybe I do and you'll find out at the worst possible moment_ pose. "Either they're getting more intelligent, or we're becoming idiots. They're more capable than the Shadows were, that's for sure. Now all we have to do is hope they don't end up turning on us either."

Xaldin interrupted their banter right as Vexen was drawing breath to claim he hoped the Dusks would kill Xigbar first. "Where's the girl?"

Startled, the scientist blinked twice before he could answer. "You're taking her already?" The question seemed weak; he tried to shore it up with a reasonable protest. "Has Zexion even begun to study her?"

"Unlike you, Zexion follows the rules. He told me yesterday that he'll only keep her for a short while - the bare minimum it takes for assessment, which shouldn't take much longer." Rationale delivered, Xaldin veered back towards the table that Xigbar was working at, tearing off a piece from the sandwich and promptly stuffing it in his mouth. Cleaning the mayonnaise off his fingers with a lap of his tongue, he added, "I'm eager to test her magical capacities. If I don't hurry, then Xemnas will finish up the list, and we'll be done."

Unable to suppress his sneer, Vexen pushed into the room fully; the doorway was burning a hard ache against the upper vertebrae of his spine. "Xemnas has no interest in her. Nor will he, so long as something new keeps showing up." When he heard Xigbar chuckle, he turned upon the gunner, pointing an accusatory finger. "Have _you_ seen anyone of remarkable quality lately, so we can predict what our _esteemed_ leader will be off chasing next?"

"Nope. But I've made a lot of enemies," Xigbar added with a grin. "Pair of twins with a fetish for scissors and giggling. Guy who wears a paper bag over his head. "Best one was this crazy teenager with paint on his face. He keeps trying to stalk me when he thinks I'm alone. What an idiot."

Reaching out to bat Xaldin's hand away from his sandwich, Xigbar reclaimed his meal by dragging the plate possessively into his own lap. "There are good parts too, though." Scratching his knee, the gunner studied his sandwich and then picked up the half that did not have grease on it. "Last world I went to looked almost like the Garden - you know, all the little streets and rivers nearby, lots of clouds and fresh air. So I watched the Shadows destroy it when they came. Get a good view this time, you know?" He laughed, and the sound was a dry rasp. "It's so peaceful here in the city, you'd never know - but outside these walls, it's a constant slaughter."

* * *

Xigbar's commentary proved regrettably apt. As the mass destruction of the worlds continued, the Shadows seemed inclined to invade the city in full force; their presence far outweighed the tiny corner that the Dusks had managed to occupy, to the point where it seemed that the researchers would be regulated strictly to the warehouse, a minority on the very world they had been exiled to.

The only positive note about the growth surge was that the Dusk population rose appropriately as well, though at a markedly slower rate than their emotional counterparts. This was more of a problem than Vexen wanted. Fewer Dusks and more Shadows meant that the Heartless were now suddenly underfoot _everywhere_, oozing into the warehouse like packs of particularly dull-witted animals who didn't realize that closed doors were intended to discourage intruders. Despite Xaldin's best efforts to have the better-trained Dusks on patrols to keep visitors out, there were only so many of the white creatures under their command.

What made matters worse was the density of Shadows within the gateways. When Vexen tried to open a convenient portal from his bedroom straight to his labs, he found the tunnel stuffed with wiggling Heartless; several tried to latch onto the hem of his jacket as he attempted to wade through, biting at his boots and legs. He kicked them away with a curse and limped all the way up to Xemnas's office using the stairs, grumbling as he delivered a stack of progress reports to Xemnas's desk.

"The _soul_," he announced indignantly, not bothering for Xemnas's acknowledgement before turning and stalking for the carafe on the sideboard. The smell of dark, spiced coffee greeted his nose as he popped the lid, and Vexen grimaced as he reached for a cup anyway, preparing himself for the overly rancid taste he knew would come. "_Again_, we are stuck at the issue of the soul. Namely, how in the world are we supposed to find one?"

Xemnas did not seem disturbed by the news. "We were able to create Artificial Heartless before," he pointed out, waiting for Vexen to finish pouring a draught of cream into his cup before beckoning to have it passed over.

Vexen relented enough to surrender the cream, but not before adding another liberal splash, just in case Xemnas had left the coffee on too long to brew that morning. "Yes, but we had a surplus of hearts back then - and that's all that the Shadows _are_, mobile hearts, given independent will only by the command of the Darkness. Dusks are different. Dusks are connected by a similar network we have not been able to access, but their unified commands come from - are you _listening_ to me, Xemnas?"

"Hm?"

Even though Xemnas's distraction was not a new condition, there was a different quality to the man's inattention. Glancing up, Vexen noticed that the other man had wandered over to the window, pulling back one of the heavy drapes to peer outside. "What's the matter?"

For a time, there was no answer; then Xemnas shifted his weight, his lower lip strangely pursed. "Have you noticed anything odd about the city lately, Vexen?"

"I've noticed that there are Heartless attempting to devour me in my bed, if that's what you're referring to." Crossing the room, Vexen grasped the curtain and yanked it aside, peering out into the darkness. Nothing more ominous was there than rows of streetlights and blinking neon advertisements marking the stores below. "You'd think they'd be satisfied in tasting me once already."

"Strange." Pulling away from the windowsill, Xemnas let one hand linger on the curtains before finally letting go. "Maybe they're being attracted to the test subjects. Or to the girl. You can come with me to destroy her," he offered carelessly, "if you'd like."

The routine threat was almost as wearisome as Aerlen's continual efforts to grate on nerves Vexen didn't have; for this, too, the scientist had lost any interest in his normal replies. If the girl was digging her own grave, he refused to be dragged down in it. "It's Zexion's turn now, technically," he offered, turning away from the window and trying to ignore the rancid taste of scorched coffee on his teeth. "Take it up with him."

Xemnas shrugged. "Zexion has his own projects to deal with. Xaldin could be convinced to skip his turn as well, I'm sure. And to be honest, I don't see any more use in retaining the girl. All of the data has already been collected, and everyone has done an admirable job of compiling it. Now I want to work on something new. Saix is far more interesting," he added, his voice taking on an enthusiastic edge as he deliberated between the cream and the sugar bowl. "Did you know that his world had an intense concentration of Darkness even _before_ the Heartless ever reached it?"

"Then go play with Saix for your research," Vexen informed him coldly, depositing his half-finished coffee cup on Xemnas's desk and snatching up the stack of notes. "I'll measure the girl's value myself."

He did not know what he had in mind by the assertion; Xemnas had spoken truly when he said that Aerlen no longer served a purpose, but something about the flippancy of the decision rang sour on Vexen's sensibilities. While there was technically no reason to retain her, terminating the observations from sheer disinterest seemed like a waste. That, and Aerlen was more company than Xemnas these days; even lacking a heart, Vexen could not say he did not have some awareness of what it felt like to be discarded by the man.

The conversation must have found its way back to the girl somehow, for she slunk back into his laboratories after several days had passed; the blotch on her face had already faded where he'd struck her, and there was nothing else about the incident left behind.

Neither of them spoke to the other about Zexion. Vexen kept the warning in mind - that Aerlen might be willing to do anything, if she thought it would give her an extended lease on life - but the girl did not move to even touch him, let alone bait him as she once had before. Her new behavior was different enough that he lost patience with her anyway. Dragging Aerlen over to one of the tables, he ordered her to stay put while he rigged wire after sensor wire to her skin, monitoring the levels of her personal energy biofields until he could confirm that she had not been transformed into a particularly bizarre Dusk overnight.

After that, matters between them seemed to settle down again, though the atmosphere never fully returned to normal. Something about their mutual antagonism had touched too personal a note on both sides - a step taken too far through Aerlen's desperation, or the comfortable boundaries of Vexen's life shaken - and neither of them could forget it.

None of it would matter once she was dead, Vexen reasoned. Issues that were unresolved could stay that way forever.

As if on cue with the shift in Heartless, the city entered its next rainy season with a vengeance. No sooner did one storm finish spewing its weight than another rolled in, and then another, until the gutters had become rivers, the streets had become ponds, and Vexen's laboratories hummed with humidity. Lexaeus cursed as he slogged in and out of the warehouse, leaving thick clumps of mud behind; he muttered darkly about erosion whenever Vexen saw him, rigging canvas over the gardens until it seemed as if the warehouse was covered in a circus tent stitched together from tablecloths and tarp.

The foul weather was inescapable. The testing chamber that Vexen had originally wanted to use for his experiments proved unsuitable to be properly configured for substance isolation - that, and the floor was covered in a thin layer of moisture from the rains - so Vexen compensated by using one of the rooms on the upper floors, safely away from the weather. Long windows occupied the entirety of the new laboratory's outer wall, which led Vexen to apply heavy blinds for blocking out any ambient light; while he did not have to concern himself with the properties of sunlight, there still remained the issue of background noise from the city outside, and stars could not be underestimated. The outer curtains had been reinforced by a shipment of what Vexen was hoping was silver, hammered into thin strips that jangled whenever he opened and closed the blinds.

They clattered in metallic applause when Aerlen pulled one aside to stare out at the buildings during one particularly fruitless afternoon.

"I still can't see any of the Shadows out there," she commented after a few minutes, sounding surprised. "It's like they all ran away."

"Maybe they're all taking refuge from the weather. Pass me the torque off that table, please. No, idiot," he added, as her fingers strayed over the metal circles, "the _platinum_ one, not silver. Down to the left. I don't have all day, thank you."

She obeyed, but slowly. "You're not happy, working like this?"

"Happy?" Turning the metal hoop around until he could squint at the elemental markings taped to one side, Vexen smirked. "I'd have thought you'd be over such illusions by now."

"You _act_ like you enjoy yourself sometimes."

One gap was missing in the list: a white gold that Vexen had relied on back in the Bastion, a true metal rather than an alloy. "Really?" Distraction kept him talking. "And when was the last time you heard one of us laugh?"

"But - " Aerlen broke off, fidgeting uncomfortably as her fingers traced over a coil of steel rope. Then her face lit up. "Just the other week. _You_ were laughing at something Zexion said. Remember?"

Vexen waved away her evidence easily; without white gold, he would have to substitute a plated variant, and those would require hand-selection. None of the Dusks had been bright enough to fill his orders with complete precision so far, bringing back approximations at best. "That wasn't _real_ laughter. Merely noise. Passing amusement, nothing more. The way you laugh is much different from any of us, Aerlen. _You_ actually feel it."

The girl made an exaggerated roll of her eyes. "That's a cheap way out," she accused. "You can just _say_ you don't feel anything, even though you act like you do. You have emotions. You just won't admit it."

If he listed the criteria for his materials along with photographic examples, perhaps the Dusks could be convinced to pay closer attention to detail. Scribbling the notation on the margins of his list, Vexen frowned as the light dimmed over the page; glancing up, he realized that Aerlen was standing over him, blocking the lamp. "I do not understand why you persist in this claim," he stated, wondering what he could possibly say to get her to stop talking. "I can see the atrocities the Heartless have inflicted on countless worlds - it does not matter. I can look at a dying child among our experiments, and not care. None of the suffering that I witness moves me. What is that, if not an utter lack of feeling?"

"But you have them," she pressed. "_Inside_. You don't care about what you see around you, but something's still there, in your mind. You got angry with me when I stole Xaldin's coat. You worry. You're afraid. You're happy, too, when you're working, or... or talking with Zexion, or just sitting outside with Lexaeus. Do you really believe that not caring about other people is _all_ that emotions are about?" As he looked back down at his work, attempting his best to ignore her, she reached out and tugged at the end of his pen. "You still have all your old friends. But you don't let yourself care about anyone else. It's like nothing _new_ can start inside you. That's the only difference."

Pushing his chair back from the table with a snort, Vexen scooped up his notes. "It is impossible to work under these conditions," he informed her coldly. "There is a surfeit of _noise_ in the air."

She made a frustrated noise in her throat as he began to stalk away, unwilling to give her the satisfaction of watching him attempt to open a portal. "Don't you see? If you honestly didn't have emotions," she yelled, "then you wouldn't have personalities either!"

He turned at that, staring across the length of the laboratory. "Apparently," he informed her briskly, "I don't."

_Projection_, he wrote in his ledgers later, pulling down the dusty journals and flipping open to the last used page. _Wishful thinking leads to the projection of one's qualities on others. _

After pondering this for a moment, Vexen underlined the words twice and drew a neat little arrow pointing to _Loneliness_.

She came back the next day despite the harsh words exchanged; the visits had become almost predictable by the strange standards of animosity that they both were playing by now. Although Vexen could not coax Aerlen into learning more than the most basic of laboratory procedure - nor did he entirely trust her with the more sensitive chemicals - another set of hands to help fetch materials about the lab was not unwanted either, and she did not shy away from technology. The Dusks had provided little in the way of information when he had begun to examine them; dissections certainly had given him no cause to believe that creating a false Dusk would be as simple as replicating mere physical matter.

He was in the middle of methodically separating a Dusk from its outer layers of muscle that Aerlen spoke. "You don't fight with Xaldin as much anymore."

The Dusk squirmed away from his scalpel. Vexen resisted the urge to stab it through to pin it to the table and keep it from unnecessary motion. "He's not as stupid as I remember," he responded, allowing reflexive insults to fill in his words. "Perhaps all the idiocy went with his heart."

"I thought..." Trailing off, Aerlen pressed her lips together, her gaze skittering across the table. "I thought you'd argue with him when I took his coat."

The guess was surprisingly perceptive for her - and incorrect. Vexen had switched the center of his conversations to the other apprentices, finding a stability there; it was easier than trying to keep up with Xemnas when the man seemed so content on becoming unreachable. Working with Xaldin was simpler when they weren't constantly at odds. Vexen reached for another set of sterilized pins. "Did you want me to?"

Rain began to fall harder, turning the spots on the windows into streaks, capturing the light from the city in multi-colored glares. Aerlen's fingers fogged the glass with irregular ovals. "You're better when you're angry. Lately you've been acting different, you know."

"I would imagine that the loss of my heart would have something to do with that," Vexen observed, acerbic. "I suppose I'm finally adjusting to my present state."

"I prefer it when you're yelling," she replied enigmatically. "It makes you look less _fake_."

He bristled automatically; she broke out into a grin quickly enough that her expression resembled a grimace. Before he could consider her reaction further - or the logic behind it - she had swung her weight off the chair and was heading towards the door.

"Is that why you stole Xaldin's jacket in the first place?" he thought to ask, just as she had reached the exit. "Just so I would yell at you?"

Aerlen paused there for a few moments, fingers stroking the curved handle of the laboratory door. Then she shook her head, a loose, half-formed acquittal. "I wanted to wear something nice." The sound of hinges creaking nearly obscured her next words as she brushed through the doorway and left the room behind. Her last words drifted back. "Is there really any harm in taking what you want?"

Pausing to yell at her for leaving the door open, Vexen found his voice sticking in his throat.

A swarm of Heartless wriggled through the hall. At first he assumed they had strayed like the others from the outside; then another cluster soon followed, and another. A stream of black wings rushed past the windows outside, and the sudden rumble shook the warehouse, heavy as a thunderstorm in birth.

Glass beakers toppled over with a symphony of crashes. Vexen cursed as he saw the compounds spill, hastily blotting out sparks and flash-freezing the worst of the chemicals before they could seep towards each other and cause an even worse disaster. While a sudden temperature drop was better than locking them all in ice - hydrogen dioxide was not always the most innocent of substances when combined with other elements - emergency measures would not last forever.

He scrambled to neutralize them all, identifying what was barely salvageable from what was not. Then the floor jerked, pitching him sharply against one of the tables, and he was forced to once more pay attention to the universe outside his own laboratories.

One twitch of the window blinds, and he had his answer for all the chaos: Heartless were overflooding the city, swarming like a stirred nest of ants.

Half the warehouse was already coated in scurrying limbs. When Vexen reached for the Darkness to open a portal for escape, it seemed to squirm underneath his control, congealing in the air in a wet mass before dissolving away, dripping onto the floor as if he had summoned living ink instead.

Running through the warehouse seemed foolish, but jumping headlong into the blackness was even worse. Aerlen was nowhere in sight. As Vexen oriented himself hastily, glancing up and down the halls - two days ago, the stairways up to Xemnas's office had relocated themselves to the kitchen, and then back again - - he saw how far the Shadows had invaded the building. Every Dusk he saw was engaged in combat with the Heartless, a brutally silent clash of white and black, hearts and bodies in unrelenting opposition.

The windows that studded the spiral stairwells revealed flickers of conflict. An inky rush was rising up from the streets like rainfall in reverse, battering the warehouse; everywhere the shadow touched, Heartless began to sprout. As the mass began to creep upwards, moving towards Vexen at an alarming rate, the scientist realized that it would catch up with him in a matter of minutes.

Adrenaline itched at his muscles. He hauled himself up the stairs, using the railing to help pull him along; the air came sharp against his lungs, a stern warning against physical limits kept slack from so many hours spent reading in a laboratory.

He almost collided with Zexion head-on when the other man stepped into the hallway, exiting Xemnas's office with a pinched expression. There was enough time for Vexen to register the way that Zexion glanced hastily past his shoulder; then the younger researcher was seizing Vexen by the front of the jacket, pulling him bodily into the chamber, which held no other answers save Zexion and Saix and a very empty chair where Xemnas should have sat.

"What," Vexen had enough time to protest, and then the warehouse heaved again in a shudder.

His body was trembling by the time the architectural spasm eased, possessed by the aftershocks rolling through the building. It was like being a child and trying to stand on water again, only a kind of water that refused to freeze obediently under his feet and keep him safe. Being helpless again was a distasteful concept; distasteful and _familiar_, and Vexen found himself thinking of the very same chain of accidents that had stolen their hearts away.

He followed the conclusion to its natural end: "Is this another of Xemnas's experiments?"

"No." Another rumble crackled through the clouds overhead, and Zexion winced. "I don't think so, at least. I was here when it all started happening - he said he was going to be right back after he took a look outside."

A keening screech cut them both off; metal screamed as it was sheared from its moorings, and the frittering glow of a stoplight strobed across the windowpanes. In the streets below, the Heartless now resembled a mass of leeches bonded together, independently writhing across the half of the warehouse where the practice yard lay - across the warehouse, the roads, the nearby stores, and almost everything that Vexen could see.

As Vexen watched, the bulk gave a surge, and burrowed deeper into the practice wing.

_The test subjects_, he realized grimly. Though there had been Dusk guards stationed there both to contain and protect the living specimens, the Heartless had never displayed this kind of initiative before. Everyone had assumed that the token guards would suffice to drive away the few hunting parties that did come sniffing around to the warehouse, mindlessly persistent. No greater threat had been imagined.

The mass was moving now, forming what appeared to be a wave - as if they were part of an ocean that had chosen to manifest only temporarily, or a swarm of locusts that were flying so thickly together that their individual bodies could not be distinguished. They rose towards the spires of the warehouse, towards the tower, towards _Vexen_, who stood staring at the window, hypnotized by heavy, black ink.

It was Saix who reacted before either of them could even move; it was Saix who vaulted across the table in a roll, moving with a raw grace born not from practice, but from necessity. His weight impacted hard against Vexen's shoulders, sending an immediate ache jolting through the scientist's bones.

They went down backwards in a tumble of elbows and protests as the wave of Darkness rolled through the room. Tendrils stroked the air fruitlessly, finding no victims to claim. One long strand wove itself around one of the coffee cups on Xemnas's desk, clutching it with the same mindless need of an infant.

Vexen struggled automatically. His reaction did not stem from caution or fear; rather, Saix's knee was grinding into the bone of his hip, Zexion's elbow was jamming into his ear, and the whole response seemed ridiculously blown out of proportion. The rung of one chair clipped his skull as he thrashed; he flung out one arm in a vain attempt to push free, only to find Zexion's mouth near his ear, hissing.

"Don't move yet!" Volume tempered hastily down from a shout, Zexion waited until Vexen's muscles went slack before continuing. "Wait for them to turn away first."

Vexen choked back a laugh at the caution. "Why are we bothering to hide?" he taunted instead, sharp-tongued from pain. "Afraid they'll take our hearts a second time?"

"They can't steal our hearts with a touch, no," Zexion spat back acidly. "But they can take apart our bodies just as easily with those claws, can't they? Wait until they move away, and then get ready to _run._"

Stung by the possibility that the other researcher had grasped the magnitude of the situation with greater accuracy, Vexen rolled his weight to the side, disengaging himself from the other man's limbs. Saix was watching them both. He kept his weight kept low to the floor, palms spread as if he was ready to leap again without warning, shielding them bodily if required.

They moved without further argument. Mutual decision brought them out of the warehouse. The halls were shaking almost constantly, and the floor seemed to warp underneath Vexen's feet - concrete and steel turning soft under his boots, so that it felt as if he were treading on rotting wood instead.

Escaping the building forced them into the rain. They did not have time to go for their umbrellas, and returning to their rooms seemed like an idea only slightly better than suicide, in Vexen's opinion. The leather of his jacket was a mercy; pulling up his hood kept most of the water out, though what managed to sneak past lingered uncomfortably on his throat.

Saix kept pacing between them and the street, herding them like a sheep dog with the expectation that they would both stray if he did not keep them in line. After the fifth time that Vexen found Saix crossing in front of his path, the scientist lashed out with an irritable slap of his hand against the man's back.

"Back away," he ordered stiffly. "You don't need to act as if we'll be run over by _traffic_."

Saix obeyed, though he placed his hand on Vexen's arm, fingers wrapped around the bicep hard enough that it felt like he intended to dig fingers into the bone. "My instructions were to keep the other members of the Organization under watch," he rumbled. "Pray, do not make my task harder for me."

Vexen pulled away roughly. "Then don't ask me to make friends with a guard dog."

He was about to stalk ahead to emphasize the point when the berserker spun around without warning, shoving both Vexen and Zexion into the nearest alleyway. Zexion stumbled to the ground, narrowly missing a collision with several trashcans; Saix shoved Vexen against the wall, spreading his arms so that he covered the other man's body. One sleeve pressed against Vexen's nose. The leather was still flavored with that peculiar mix of mustiness and fresh oils that seemed to mark each acquisition found in the City, aged and not-aged all at once.

"Quiet," Saix insisted softly, leaning his weight against Vexen's body like a living curtain of muscle. "Hold yourself steady, and let the enemy pass."

Barely able to breathe against Saix's arm, Vexen craned his neck to try and see what had spooked the berserker.

A clot of Heartless was prowling the streets. No longer regulated to the sparse roaming packs that would swell and break like blisters ripening under heat, these Shadows had congregated together to form a melding of bodies, strange blobs that seemed to birth themselves fresh with each step that they took. Multi-legged spiders swarmed methodically over the buildings. Above them all, towering like a giant over the streetlights, swam a tendril-covered beast. Its flesh enveloped the streetlights as it passed, and each one of its taloned paws was larger than a horse.

They retreated deeper into the alleyway, away from the new forms that the Heartless had chosen to wear. The sideroads were twisting affairs. Options for shelter were few; they resorted to claiming shelter in a dimly lit convenience store, choosing the gloom despite the plate-glass windows that exposed the bulk of the store to prying eyes. The store looked as if it had shut down automatically from disuse - all the signs were powered off, and even the lamps in the refrigeration units were turned down low - but its front door slid open merrily to welcome them, unlocked and accessible.

Saix promptly barricaded it afterwards.

The original owners of the store had thought to base the design around a circular motif, with a wide central area of shelves and displays to purchase from. A food rack had been elevated against the far wall, and two sloping ramps curved up on either side to meet it. Not all the functions of the store had been hidden neatly behind the partition stands; a few doors studded the upper wall, and Saix checked them meticulously, revealing only storage boxes and the smell of imitation cheese.

Vexen stripped off his jacket gratefully, draping it over one of the display stands. Though he was not irritated by the cold, he could feel the discomfort of wet leather against his neck and collarbones, and the material had begun to chafe.

Zexion flipped through a handful of magazines; none of the print was legible by Bastion standards, mixed from the gibberish that populated so much of the literature native to the City. The nonsense did not seem to slow him down as he skipped through gibberish letters to the editors. "We have a partial advantage," he began, picking up the conversation from some halfway point without bothering with the preliminaries. "It seems that they cannot sense us without hearts." Closing his magazine with a glossy flap, he set it aside carefully on the merchant counter before reaching for a second. "They may have been attracted to our research. If so they'll go for Aerlen, making her our greatest liability for now since she knows enough to fear them."

"If so," Vexen reasoned back, neatly counteracting the other researcher's logic, "she's an asset. Follow the Heartless, and we'll find her."

"That would work," interjected a humorless voice, "if they were here to seek hearts."

Like a deathcrow bringing omen, Xaldin dropped down from the railing by the snack bar. He landed noiselessly, cushioned by a puff of air. His half-zipped jacket billowed around him like a pair of trembling leather wings. Two supply packs hung from his left hip; neither had been emptied out fully from the man's trip off-world, and they jostled together like fattened puppies.

Saix gave a start, hands automatically balling into fists. Then he recovered quickly, peering at the lancer with a detached suspicion. "How did you find entrance inside here?"

Xaldin shot him what could only be considered a sour look; then he swept his hands down his jacket, which was covered with smears of dust. "There's an air duct on the roof that leads into the storage rooms in back. No, I didn't crawl through it myself," he added, catching sight of Vexen's expression. "I sent one of my Dragoons through. It flipped the lock for me. That's what you get for blocking off the doors. I applaud the logic, but you didn't make it any easier on me."

The admonishment was enough to cause Saix to look down, lowering his head in what looked like chastised apology. "I thought to reinforce the surroundings," he murmured. "Forgive me if I did so in error."

The lancer only slapped his glove against the counter as he pulled it off, tugging off the second and adding it without preamble. "You're forgetting that the Heartless will just teleport in if they feel the need. Turning a key won't keep them out if they're determined." Unbuckling the heavy, double-toothed belt slung around his waist, Xaldin gave a shrug, dismissing the matter entirely as he turned towards Zexion. "I searched through the warehouse when I got back, but no one else was still there. Even the Heartless have mostly abandoned it. I assume that you've all been separated?"

"When the Heartless first came through," Zexion acknowledged. "Any sign of the others?"

Xaldin shook his head. "Not yet."

"It shouldn't be hard to deal with this problem," Vexen snapped, tacking on his contribution. "Open a portal, and we escape any danger they present. How can we be imprisoned when we can simply use a corridor and vanish?"

"A corridor which is controlled by the _Shadows_," Xaldin barked in reply. "How do you think I found out that we _had _trouble in the first place? When I tried to come home, I had to wade through an army of Heartless to get here." Sliding open one of the refrigeration doors, Xaldin hooked his fingers around a bottle of brightly-colored liquid and hauled it out, cracking the plastic seal. Carbonation hissed and bubbled. "Even for this place, that isn't normal. If the Heartless don't want us to pass, if they're controlled to act _against_ us, then blindly leaping into their reach would be suicide. Or have you forgotten that we're not the masters of our own world yet?"

The drink made the air smell like rancid strawberries. Vexen wrinkled his nose.

"Have you seen Xemnas?" Climbing to his feet, Zexion brushed past the lancer to claim a bottle for himself, selecting a second one in afterthought and lobbing it in Vexen's direction. "We were hoping he'd be with you."

A shake of the lancer's head. "If we're lucky, Xigbar and Lexaeus are taking care of him," Xaldin offered. "If not -" He broke off there, scrubbing his face, looking suddenly tired - tired and human, instead of an emotionless commander of Dusks. "We'll have to find everyone soon," he concluded abruptly. "We don't have a choice."

They left the convenience store sparingly, moving in a group together. At first Xaldin protested the additions, claiming that he could scout better without anyone in tow; then, when the Heartless began to slide their bodies against the store's windows, no one wanted to stay behind. They walked without direction, keeping the distant glow of the warehouse as a marker on the horizon. The storm did not abate.

Just as they had circled halfway around the city block, Zexion jerked up, alert as a hunting dog that had just caught bay.

"They're close."

* * *

Xaldin did not question Zexion's heightened senses; no one questioned Xaldin's decision to follow them. The weather had not let up. Vexen followed the others blindly, his eyes squinting against the incessant pounding of the rain; Zexion led the way with unerring determination. Even if they were being led in circles, Vexen would not have cared. It seemed as if every conflict brought him pacing endlessly through cold streets, hoping for an answer at the end.

As they approached a wider intersection, he could hear the sounds of conflict ricocheting off the streets - metal echoed off metal, gunshots fired in wild spurts. Xaldin moved forward automatically at the noise, his lances coming into form around him: one, two, four poles clustering like nervous soldiers, waiting for command.

Then he paused, glancing back towards the rest of the group.

"Go." Saix answered the unspoken query. "I will keep the watch here."

Xaldin made a grateful nod, tossing one of his spears towards the diviner; Saix caught the weapon with equal efficiency, with no unnecessary flourishes of strength. Then came a whisper of air, tracing along Vexen's nerves on two degrees: on the skin and under it, magic mixing with the breeze and Xaldin took a step forward and was gone.

Zexion was already edging along the sidewalk, shaking off his hair underneath the awning of a bakery while he fumbled at the latch. Empty shelves inside waited in eternal obedience for a morning that would never come, accompanied by loaf pans draped in cheesecloth. The kitchen was separated off from the rest of the establishment behind a row of counters and rolling trays; Saix gestured for them both to enter the building first, lingering at the doorway like a watchful hound.

"I can protect myself quite well, thank you," Vexen snapped, though he accepted the idea of dry shelter with a muted gratitude.

He was the only one continuing to protest. Zexion had already become entranced by the spectacle, hoisting himself up to perch on the counter in order to see.

Luck was on their side. Xemnas and Xigbar were poised on opposite corners of the road that stretched out in front of the bakery, facing down the giant Heartless that had stalked the warehouse earlier. Smaller Shadows were continuing to burrow up from the pavement; these, Xigbar was neatly picking off as they approached, loading and reloading a pair of guns that he swapped from hand to hand with the longtime ease of a sniper.

Xemnas stared up at the beast for several long seconds before finally taking a step forward. "Don't you think it would make a great prototype for a Dusk, Xigbar?" Vexen heard him calling out. The words were muffled through the glass, but the view was clear: as Xemnas turned around to look for the gunner, the monstrous Heartless behind him reared back in preparation to lunge.

Just as the Shadow sprang forward, ripping one paw in a slash that left deep grooves through the line of buildings, Xigbar took action. He flickered out of view just as the claws began to descend over where Xemnas was standing. Space folded itself deftly to snatch both of them away seconds before the talons closed shut, Xigbar yanking Xemnas along with an arm around the other man's waist.

The beast ripped chunks of tar and pavement up from the ground, scattering the debris in a wave that shattered rows of storefront glass.

"I blame _your_ Heartless for this, by the way," came Xigbar's faint yell as both men reappeared, and then his words turned to curses as one of his guns did nothing but click helplessly at the incoming threat. He flung it aside, drawing another one from out of his jacket - and then Xaldin was there, bringing his three lances up in a razor-sharp defense.

The Heartless was moving too fast to stop. It impaled its hand fully; the spear-points ripped through inky flesh and left shreds of black power curled around the blades, sparking against the summoned metal. Teeth split and scissored as the creature's mouth opened in a silent roar, and then came down to snap at Xaldin's heels.

Zexion had already puzzled out the confrontation. "That one must be controlling the others," he voiced aloud, nodding towards the beast. "It's futile to try and kill all the Shadows, this close to the Darkness. We'll have to remove the commander and let the smaller Heartless disperse."

Vexen joined him at the counter, leaning his arms gingerly against it. The soda from the convenience store was settling poorly in his stomach, and he was regretting the drink. "Will that even be possible?"

"We're not the ones fighting." Zexion's voice was a wry hum in the darkness. "Let's hope we don't have to."

It was the first time, Vexen realized, that he had seen any of them really fight since becoming Dusks. Xaldin practiced almost daily whenever he was home on various balconies and yards; Lexaeus had struggled with the Heartless when Aerlen had first arrived. But those brief displays bore no resemblance to the outright violence unleashed on the corner of the city: Xigbar twisting his weight around invisible gravity portals, Xaldin brandishing spears like arctic winds given form. Xemnas had chosen to stay out of the fight, but he was crouched dangerously within range if should the creature decide to strike at him. His fists were clenched, his head was tilted up, and the set of his eyes blazed with an unnamed hunger.

In the corner of Vexen's vision, he caught dim impressions of Saix fighting as well. The berserker had stationed himself underneath the awning to the front door of the bakery, struggling to keep the Heartless from entering. The roar of his voice mixed with the rain pounding against the buildings as his borrowed lance was knocked away, spinning free as a half-dozen Shadows sprang for the berserker's face.

As they came, Saix reached his hands towards the sky, towards the stars as a beggar might.

Strangely enough, the beast had started to turn away from its attackers, lashing out only whenever Xaldin or Xigbar approached. Cornered, it sought to back away from the threat they posed, flattening itself against the wall of the building - but not fading away to escape either, as a normal Heartless might. It struggled against bullet and lance, lashing out its claws in clumsy grabs for the two researchers, until finally the combined assault breached some part of its structural integrity, and it dissipated in a thick, oily steam.

The air hummed with power spent. The smaller Heartless scattered all at once, retreating from the streets back into far crevices of the city; Saix slumped back against the storefront window, his shoulders heaving from the exertion, but still alive.

Zexion did not bother to remain under cover longer than necessary. Before the air had fully cleared, he was already pushing out the front of the bakery, setting the welcome bells jingling. "Was it really necessary to destroy it?" he called out, as Vexen trailed behind, catching the door to keep it from hitting either of them in the face.

Xigbar was methodically checking the level of ammunition in his guns, sliding out the clips and popping them back in with a thoughtful grunt. "Xemnas wanted to take the beast under capture, if possible." Holstering a third pistol, he added, curt, "It wasn't."

The reunion was brisk. Xemnas did not seem surprised to see any of them, ignoring them in favor of studying the pavement where the Heartless had disappeared - as if it would magically reconstruct itself simply for his personal enjoyment. Xaldin was already squinting at his lances, holding them out at arm's length to wash them in the rain.

Just as Vexen was trying to think of a good way of accusing Xemnas of causing the latest disturbance, a voice rolled down the street.

"About time the rescue brigade showed up!"

The mist had almost entirely dispersed from the front of the building that the Heartless had clung to; something had staved in the front door, so that splintered wood lined the opening in rows of shredded thorns. As Vexen watched, the remains of the door shuddered, and then were wrenched carefully inwards, crumbling as they went.

What he could see of the culprit was a dim figure in the gloom. It kept both hands raised as it edged around a chunk of rubble and approached the exit out. "Though I gotta say, could be a little faster next time, you know?"

The unfamiliar voice triggered Saix into action. Without waiting for a command, the berserker sprang into a dash that took him past Xigbar, past Xaldin, into the building and colliding with the stranger before it could set foot past the threshold.

Vexen was slower to run forward than the others, catching up only after everyone else had already fought their way inside. Someone had flipped the lights on during the confusion, exposing the figure without the luxury of shadows to hide it. Instead of a dangerous magus, Saix had caught what looked like a scrawny refugee from a prison world. It was a man - that, or a particularly underdeveloped woman - with a shock of hair so brilliantly red that made Lexaeus look drab by comparison, as if he had come from a world conjured straight from a painter's crop. Two lines were streaked underneath his eyes, slashed down his cheeks like tears or twin wounds.

He was no one that Vexen had ever seen before, in the Bastion or outside of its walls, with a heart or without one.

Xigbar was as surprised as the rest. "Sonofa_bi_," he started, and then broke off the curse midway, reaching for his guns. "No, I _know_ this guy! I can't believe he followed me _home_. Well, this's as far as he's going to get - "

"Whoa whoa _whoa_!" Trapped underneath Saix's weight, the stranger began to struggle as Xigbar strode forward purposefully. "Okay. Okay! Let's not be hasty here. I'm sure we're all friends here and even if we're not, I have a _really _good suggestion why we should be." The gun pressed against his throat, and he winced. "If I can find this place, _anyone_ can."

"He's right," Xaldin pointed out solemnly. "We should interrogate him first, _then_ kill him."

Vexen interceded just as Xigbar was pulling out a handkerchief from a pocket and wadding it against the barrel of the gun. "Don't!" When Xigbar huffed an exasperated sigh, Vexen yanked the handkerchief away by force. "How did he survive this place unprotected as a human? Have you thought about that first?"

"Apparently, he didn't."

The reply was from Xemnas - the first words he had spoken since the Shadow's fall and the claiming of the prisoner. As the researchers went silent, turning to face him one by one, Xemnas arched an eyebrow. "This man is a Dusk. See how the Heartless no longer pay him any attention? I can only surmise that his heart was seized on the way through."

The announcement caused Xigbar to pause, pulling back the gun a fraction as he pursed his lips, frowning.

Xemnas did not bother to explain further; kneeling, he leaned down, studying the newcomer with interest. "How did you get here in the first place? And why were the Heartless chasing you, when you shouldn't have had anything to interest them?"

Lying perfectly still on the ground, the stranger gradually changed his focus away from the weapon in his face, and towards what he must have assumed was the lesser threat.

"Look," he began, "I don't know."

Xigbar gave a shove of the gun, and the stranger winced.

"Okay, maybe I do." When Xigbar made a chuckle that sounded more like a bubbling hum of pleasure, the redhead bared his teeth in a nervous grin. "A while back, right when the monsters near my town started getting worse, I started seeing guys with black coats around. Figured I would go looking to find out what the connection was. What I _found_," and he paused, grimacing over the words, "was some thin-faced Sorceress - and she found me, too."

He stopped there, abruptly; even the threat of Xigbar's gun tracing a line down his throat couldn't force him to speak again as he stared past them all towards the ceiling.

"And?" Xemnas urged.

Finally, the stranger winced. "She sent her flunkies after me. They caught up to me - I don't know _what_ they did, but it hurt - and then dumped me in this weird town with the wrong kind of sky. I hid out there for a while. That's when I heard you guys getting mentioned again, as some kind of organization." He paused there again, watching Xemnas's face; when no reaction came, he continued. "But when I tried hijacking one of those doorways that you use, I ended up in this crazy hallway, with no way out. When the next door opened, I took it. Found another person all dressed up in a robe, but they didn't look like they were with you - they were surrounded by _black _monsters, while you guys use _white_." This, he announced with confidence, not bothering to conceal the guess. "Second guy didn't like me snooping around either, I think. Next thing I know, Mr. Big's hot on my trail, and I'm running again."

"And led them here."

"Look, where _I_ come from, Sorceresses are bad news." The refugee tried to give a shrug, scraping his elbows against the ground. Saix growled at the movement. "And since you killed off one of her toys, it seems like you and her aren't working together like I thought. Have you people ever thought about wearing _nametags?_ Maybe cut down on this confusion, let the rest of us know whose side you're on?"

Xemnas did not laugh, but his mouth did twitch in the hint of a smile. As if the matter had found closure so readily, he gathered his jacket and stood. "Let him go. If he's become a Dusk, then he's one of us now, and we can't waste our resources."

Xigbar looked ready to protest; his mouth opened, and then shut again with an audible click. Rolling his shoulders, he stepped away from the prisoner, but did not holster his gun. "Doesn't solve the question of who's controlling the Heartless. A woman? Some kind of sorceress? That can't be any of us - unless he ran into Vexen's better half."

Vexen shot a glare across the room. "Very funny."

"Hey, hey, I'm not finished yet." Bending his knees as he pushed himself off the floor, the stranger waved a finger in warning. The plume of his hair was spotted with water where Saix had dripped rain on him; the red locks looked as if they were beginning to clot. "I _saw_ you before, when you came to my world. You're the ones in charge of the white monsters. I went through all this mess because I wanted to _know_, and I think I've earned some information. Here, it's easy - I'll even go first. You can call me Lea," he said, and it was like a song, a doubled syllable for the vowels. "That's L-E-A," he spelled, "no H on the end. Think you can remember that?"

Xemnas didn't blink. "It's only three letters long."

Lea looked nonplussed, stretching out his lanky arms and making an exaggerated show of picking splinters out of his clothes. "Hey, some people get it wrong." He paused in the middle of squinting at his sleeve, tilting his grin up in Xemnas's direction, like a cat trying to court a crocodile. "How about you guys? I gave my name, only fair if you give me yours."

"Us?" Startled, Xemnas's smile returned; it wavered, and then strengthened into an amusement fit to rival the stranger's. "We're nobodies. And you are too, now. Doesn't _anyone_ have a name longer than three letters these days?" he complained mildly, delivering the rhetoric as he turned on one heel, glancing across the room until he found where Zexion had been sitting in the corner. "_Lea_," he repeated aloud, in an inexplicable demand.

Zexion seemed to understand the command; he glanced towards the ceiling for a moment, and then returned a suggestion. "_Alex_."

"No. Too bizarre. Give me something more normal."

"Lexa."

"That's even worse!"

As the banter continued, the tattooed stranger cocked his head towards the small cluster of the other researchers. "Hey, who's the kook?"

"You may call him the Superior," Saix replied instantly, earning a startled glance from Xemnas.

But the title stuck, even before Vexen had a chance to protest it. "The Superior?" Lea tilted his weight to the side appraisingly, resting one hand on his hip. "I see. I guess I should watch my step around him then, right?" The arrogance did not stop there; before anyone could warn him properly, Lea was already turning his focus onto Xigbar. "Is _he_ what happened to your eye?"

"Accident during a fishing trip," Xigbar replied smoothly back. "Those trout can get _vicious_. Now, we'd better get you away from those two before they come up with an even worse name to call you."

"So I'm your prisoner, then?"

"Let's just say," the gunner answered, grinning, "I _highly_ recommend you come along. Like I said - those fish? Can get _real_ nasty."

* * *

They found what happened to Lexaeus much later. Unlike the others, he had stayed behind in the warehouse to protect what he could of the test specimens, fighting through the Heartless assault. Like a shepherd guarding a flock of tattered, weary sheep, he had managed to barricade them in one of Vexen's laboratories; the facility had been divided into two portions split by a glass observation window. Vexen had originally been utilizing the secluded half for isolating Dusks, but Lexaeus had somehow managed to turn the chamber into a refugee camp.

Aerlen was among those he'd managed to protect. A streak of blood was crusted along her left cheek from temple to jaw, but it did not seem to be hers; she flinched when he placed his fingers under her chin and forced it to turn aside for study, but did not otherwise struggle.

When he released her at last, her mouth twisted in an arrogant smirk. "I _told_ you Lexaeus was a hero."

"Then be proud of yourself that your very existence likely made his job harder for him," he retorted, glancing about the room for a sink. Finding none, he drew a sheen of ice upon his fingertips and dabbed at the bloodstain as she winced. "Or did you forget how hungry the Shadows are for your heart?"

Aerlen rolled her eyes as she was lectured, ignoring his criticism; most of her attention was focused on where Xigbar was giving a preliminary examination to the stranger, shirt sleeves rolled up and arms extended. Xigbar looked as if he was saying something amusing; the gunner's mouth was shaping laughter, but the sound couldn't make it through the insulation. "Who's the new guy?"

"A potentially treacherous lout who has recently been given the name of Axel." Having finished cleaning off Aerlen's face, Vexen rinsed off his fingers with a flick, dripping ruddy blots on the floor. "May he kill you in your sleep."

They broke up from there to go their own ways about the warehouse, recovering what had been ravaged by the Heartless, and tallying up materials that had to be replaced. For all Vexen's problems with the Dusks, the creatures seemed to instinctively know how to set the warehouse back in order; Vexen never saw exactly what they did to repair the building, other than cluster together and hop around the rooms, waving their pointed arms and huddling.

But the floors felt more stable, and the gaps in the warehouse began to close up again - slowly, like the flesh of a wound knitting sluggishly back together. The Heartless did not repeat their attack. While numerous test subjects had been claimed by the Shadows, Vexen couldn't think of a reason to mind: the captives would have been fed to the Darkness sooner or later, so the loss was merely an advancement in schedule.

No one seemed eager to educate Axel in the business of the Organization. Unlike Saix's willing obedience, Axel smiled too much, asked questions too much, and - generally, in Vexen's opinion - was an intrusive presence in what had been a tightly-knit group of six researchers and their personal pets. Saix was easy to ignore. Axel was impossible.

With the lack of any official decision, Lexaeus took over the duty of introducing Axel to the warehouse's daily routine. None of them volunteered to take further care of Saix, but it was assumed that if the man hadn't killed himself yet, he likely would not fall into a spontaneous meat grinder that might suddenly appear in the middle of the warehouse.

With Xemnas and Saix haunting the practice yard and its observation balcony, and Axel eagerly prowling the lower rooms under the excuse that he had to learn the building's layout, Vexen discovered that the rest of their organization had gravitated to the most remote sector of the warehouse that could be found. The landing they had chosen was on a disused corner; mutated growth of the stairwells had elevated what looked like a simple balcony up into a rising series of platforms, curved around one side of the warehouse and overlooking a cluster of grocery stores. Xaldin and Xigbar were almost always there, whenever they were not off-world exploring; Zexion had also taken refuge with the two of them, leaving a neat stack of books beside his preferred chair.

When Vexen stepped out onto the landing to join them, half-expecting that they would demand an explanation for him not being in the laboratories, Xigbar only shrugged and floated over a cup of coffee.

Most of their time was spent in relative silence. Rarely was Saix mentioned, or Axel, or anything beyond the most basic of work affairs. Xigbar occupied most of the air with the sounds of his target practice. The mechanics of the new guns he had found were less noisy than traditional gunpowder; Vexen did not have to wear protective earplugs, but the repeated _crack_ of so many rounds was beginning to leave an unpleasant echo in his skull.

"I think I'm going to call this place the Brink of Despair," the gunner volunteered suddenly one afternoon as he beckoned another series of hoops into the air, levitating them into place.

Zexion turned another page in his book. "That's pedantic. How about, 'Naught's Skyway'?"

"And what in the name of the Falls is _that_ supposed to mean?" Xigbar snorted as he sent a neat round of bullets through two rings, one paper target shaped like a heart, and Xemnas.

Xaldin shouted; the tanned researcher flinched away at the last second, folding darkness so swiftly about his body that Vexen thought the man had been slain on the spot, and all the power in his body was about to detonate at once. When it cleared, Xemnas had vanished from among the targets and had reappeared next to Zexion, looking vaguely affronted as he sat down in a chair beside the younger man.

Both of Xigbar's guns had disappeared, and the man was flapping his hands in the air as if he'd been burned. "You blithering, _idiotic_ - "

"You'll have to forgive him," Zexion cut in over the cursing, which was rapidly degenerating into more colorful swears. "He's been cranky ever since he lost his depth perception. You missed him walking into a door the other day."

"So I see." Xemnas blinked again, glancing down studiously at his jacket as if expecting to find puncture holes there. "I asked a Dusk where everybody was, and got told you were with meeting with the Whirlwind of Lances. I assume that's supposed to be Xaldin? Either that, or a ceiling fan. Are they coming up with those names themselves?"

Xaldin shrugged, looking unruffled at the peculiar title he'd been given. "Perhaps it's a form of respect."

"Yes, but _someone_ must be coming up with them. The Dusks don't seem to have enough willpower _or_ individuality for the process." Xemnas paused for a moment, surveying them; his next question was strangely hesitant, and utterly confused. "You're all still not... pleased with our latest addition?"

It was Xigbar, surprisingly, who voiced their concern, shutting off his tirade as easily as it had begun. He shoved the teapot on the table aside, dumping his guns and beginning the exhaustive process of disassembling them for cleaning. "Two recruits, this fast, Xemnas? That's too dangerous. We spent how long alone, and suddenly not one, but _two_ strangers successfully make the transition? How does that even _begin_ to work?"

Xemnas cupped both hands around the teapot protectively, his shoulders hunching. "This is different than Saix."

"I fail to see how they aren't the exact same thing!"

Zexion shook his head, joining the argument. "Once is luck. The second?" He folded the book closed gently in his lap, using his finger to hold his place. "Axel's explanation is too trite. There may be something he is not telling us. What if he is in league with this woman, sworn to her in exchange for the return of his heart?"

If it wasn't for knowing better, Vexen would have called it a mixture of frustration and regret that was warring on Xemnas's face, twisting the man's mouth as he studied the teapot in his hands. "I'd think you'd be tired of doubt by now, all of you." His voice was remarkably soft. Then he lifted it, resuming his normal brazen confidence. "If we find traitors, we will deal with them. But we can hardly pick and choose from the Nobodies available. Like it or not, we will have to use what we get. In the meantime, Axel has given us valuable information. We now are aware that there are more than simply our own Heartless becoming involved in this power struggle. Why should we not allow him to ally with us?"

A rustle of leather, and Xaldin was standing, facing away from the group as he looked up at the night sky. "Xemnas," the lancer began quietly, adding another side to the defense, another objection. "You haven't made a bargain with Axel for his loyalty. That is the biggest problem. You may have tricked Saix, but Axel? There's no agreement made. There's no bond. We have no guarantees of _his_ loyalty."

Threatened with this last addition - Xigbar, Zexion, Xaldin, three of the five other researchers - Xemnas turned his appeal in Vexen's direction next. "We have _every_ guarantee. Axel and Saix want to continue existing, and this is the only way how. If they want to regain their hearts and keep from being slaughtered by our enemies, they will _have_ to join us, and pursue the same goals."

Xemnas's fingers were tightly clenched on the teapot. Vexen found himself staring at them; all he could think about was the riddle of history and illusion, around and around as if solving the question of the soul would explain everything forever without question. "Something _is_ wrong, Xemnas," he finally responded, "whether you choose to acknowledge it or not. We spent all this time alone, and then suddenly two recruits show up in less than a year - one of which was an accident? No." He shook his head, unwilling to take the easier route of remaining silent. "There's something very strange going on, Xemnas, and _not _just because the Heartless have become stronger. You _cannot_ pretend otherwise - "

Porcelain clattered as Xemnas stood, knocking the teapot to the ground.

Leaves sloshed onto the floor. The puddle of hot water that dribbled out from the upended pot began to crawl towards Vexen's boot, and he finally glanced up, searching for Xemnas's expression.

Not even an imitation of anger was there to be found. Xemnas's face was remote with an awful sort of detachment, completely devoid of any concern for the situation.

"If matters are going too fast, then there's a simpler explanation." Nothing about the smooth articulation matched the way that Xemnas had composed himself, with his shoulders straight and eyes slightly narrowed. "It's merely the compression of energies. We've reached the breaking point where inertia has built up for too long, and the counterbalance follows soon after. If the Darkness is moving faster, we'll simply have to keep up."

Xaldin moved as well then, stepping alongside the fallen teapot, though he did not kneel to clean it up. "Too fast, and we may find ruin, Xemnas."

"Too slow, and we die," the younger man snapped back viciously. "_Again_. No, we'll encourage the destruction of the worlds. And then, once there are enough Dusks, we will find a way to contain the Heartless as well. The only question is, how? How do we imprison the Shadows, for our use and _our_ use alone?"

The words brought a flash of smoke to Vexen's nose - stemming from memory only, rising up through the cells of his body in a recollection deep enough that it went beyond the heart. Smoke, fire, and screams. A twinge that might have been fear, or a distant memory of awe; perhaps it was only the instinctive caution of one animal for another, with the urge to preserve personal existence no matter what the cost.

One thing was clear. Xemnas had already moved past the issue of new Dusks; he did not wonder why they were being created at random, why they had obeyed his choice and no other save the rule of accidents. He was not even thinking about why Axel had survived the loss of a heart, but instead was aiming for some nebulous point in the distance, of discovery and containment and ambition.

Unable to answer any of the questions - spoke and unspoken - Vexen only swallowed. "I have never understood your power, Xemnas," he whispered, and knew it to be true.

His voice drew the man's attention back towards the table; Xemnas whirled, and the intensity in his gaze was as cold as the bitterest Bastion winter. "_Understand_ it?" The question was slow mockery, at odds with the tight ferocity playing about the corners of his mouth. "You were _fascinated_ by it, back in the Garden. You _all_ told me you thought I should seek it out. You wanted something that could break through the barriers in our research, and that something was me - I was your test subject, then _and_ now. You need me to guide our work so we continue to exist, and I will do it. I am the only one of us willing to take the final step into the unknown, to let it _become_ me. No one else has gone that far."

Unclenching his fist slowly, Xemnas stretched his fingers in the air, a silent demand to a sky that had no sun. His gaze ranged over their faces. "You may question my methods, but I _will_ accomplish our goals. Either follow me," he added pleasantly, as if he did not even realize the impact of his own words, or how loud his voice had risen, "or be destroyed."

Silence reigned on the landing.

Then Xigbar broke the standoff. "Don't be stupid, Xemnas." Sliding out of his chair, Xigbar slapped the other man on the arm, a playful smack that sounded unexpectedly sharp on the air. "As _if_ we'd run off and do something else. No need to get all Darkness-crazy on us again, okay?"

After a moment, Xemnas relaxed. "Yes," he murmured, lowering his hand and rubbing his face. "You're right."


	13. Chapter 13

If Vexen thought the researchers had enough problems to begin with, Axel's appearance worsened the situation tenfold. Rather than wait meekly in the corner for instruction - as was Saix's habit, whenever the diviner was not skulking around muttering about Xemnas's orders - or poke at his surroundings in a haphazard fashion - like Aerlen had always done, and they had rapidly invented safeguards against - Axel settled into his new habitant without any hesitation. Within his first week at the warehouse, he had already learned how the stairways would change without warning and where they would lead to next. Within the second, and he was strolling about as if he'd been in the city for years, a cocky grin shining upon his face.

In rising irritation, Vexen ordered the younger Nobody to fetch supplies from a particularly remote storeroom in the lower floors. It should have taken Axel several days to find his way down there and back again - particularly since that wing of the building had decided to shift itself ninety-degrees around the axis of the warehouse - but before the afternoon was even halfway over, Axel was traipsing into the labs with a triumphant grin and a box in his arms.

It was enough, Vexen decided, to drive a man mad.

Saix was easy to ignore. The diviner always seemed content to accept basic commands, so long as there was no threat to the researchers on the horizon. Annoying, but easily overlooked in the grand scheme of things.

It was impossible to dismiss Axel.

Instead of behaving with proper deference, Axel acted as if becoming a Nobody was little more than a change in vocation. None of his inquiries focused around the nature of their existence, but instead what responsibilities each member had, what roles, what _authority_. With a surgeon's precision, Axel pointed out each crack in the lack of formal hierarchy between the researchers - or perhaps it was simply his proximity that began to bring the gaps to light, forcing an outsider's perspective on what had formerly been a clump of six childhood apprentices, and two human-shaped pets.

It was enough that Vexen was beginning to dislike being in the warehouse - let alone his labs - never knowing if the next set of feet down the hall would result in Axel tapping on his door, or asking questions that Vexen did not want to answer.

"I understand our limited resources do not allow for much selection, but is the man truly _necessary_ for our goals?" he exclaimed irritably the next time he met with Xemnas, pouring over lists of various Dusk phenotypes.

Xemnas did not seem moved by the protest. His expression had resumed its enigmatic peace once more, serenely bereft of common sense. "Is anyone?" he offered back with a cryptic smile, and then gathered the reports and left.

Vexen stifled his thoughts, and stole the pens off Xemnas's desk for good measure.

The other problem with Axel was how quickly he captured Aerlen's attention. While Vexen was initially pleased with the girl's sudden disappearance from the labs, whenever she _did_ come around, it seemed as if her attitude had breached some new plateau of rebellion. Her challenges were less petty, and focused instead on Vexen's ambitions, on his research, and what might come of it. Her questions were keen to gather information, and her attention had sharpened with them.

Axel, he realized, was not only a disruptive influence, but a corruptive one.

During the man's secondary diagnostics - a procedure which instantly reinforced Vexen's insight that Axel was more trouble than he was worth - several more variables were solved. Xigbar had determined that the chances of Axel suddenly dissolving into a pile of acidic goo were relatively minor, which left the remainder of the newcomer's charts to be filled out in Vexen's labs. All that remained, apart from combat testing, was the realm of magic.

When asked if he retained any trained skills from his previous life, Axel shrugged. He stretched out one long, lanky arm, eyes drooping shut like a marionette's lids gone slack over painted cheeks. There was no other ritual, no motion, until his mouth suddenly curved in a tight smile.

A ripple of heat stroked the air, and power blossomed forth.

Light flared off Axel's fingers. The explosion rippled out in a wave that shaped itself into two artificial wings, beating on either side of a thin neck that reared proudly from the flames: a bird born from heat and light, crackling as it breathed. It shivered like a sentient beast, wrapped around Axel's arm. With a spasm of frantic motion, the spell-summons threw itself forward towards Vexen, beak opening, wings wide - and then vanished, leaving only a rush of blistering wind to caress the scientist's face, driving the smell of the desert into his nose and forcing him to squint.

"Fire Dancer," Axel explained with a gallant bow. "Always had a knack for the hot stuff."

"Very nice," Vexen shot back. He straightened his jacket, pretending that he hadn't flinched. "I'll have to ask the Dusks to install an emergency extinguisher system."

After everything had been properly evaluated and analyzed - sufficient testing determined that Axel had conscious control over his powers, and would not ignite his bedding in his sleep - Vexen finally gave the impatient order for Axel to dress. The redhead shrugged his shirt back on, buttoning up the front. His material possessions consisted of a chain necklace that had two metal tags dangling from the links, a set of canvas pants that had been marked with his family name on the back, and a pair of scuffed boots. All had been passed through superficial examination, and all were less suspicious than the questions Axel carried in his mind to occasionally parcel out at the worst moments.

"You guys _do_ perform important business here, right?" When Vexen didn't answer, Axel prodded at the fresh jacket and pants that were folded up on the end of the table. "Don't you ever get tired of wearing black?"

Vexen skipped confirmation of the test subject's cognitive abilities, leaving a tell-tale blank square instead of initials. "No."

"I'd, uh, imagine that it'd get kind of dull in the morning," Axel continued ruthlessly. "Though everything would match."

"These are the uniforms we have. Black is a simple color, and keeps us from being distinguished when we are out. Wear whatever you wish beneath the jackets - I believe Xaldin may be prone to nothing at all." Flipping back the papers one last time to make certain he had filled out all the necessary statements, Vexen shoved the report into a folder and clipped it shut. "What you wear on your own time is up to you, but _try_ to keep in uniform while performing Organization business. If you'd prefer," he added sharply, unable to resist the jab, "I understand Xigbar has a coat in your size. It has _butterflies_."

Victory was denied him, however. When Axel leaned too far back while tugging on his new boots, and nearly upended several delicate beakers with various forms of acid, Vexen snapped, "If you don't have an appreciation for science, at least retain an ability to get out of its way, idiot."

"What _science_ tells me," Axel drawled, pulling the metal buckles tight, "is that there's a word for people whose bedroom fantasies depend on _blindfolds_."

"Amaurophilia. And don't ask me how I know it," Vexen tacked on, seeing a smirk begin to inch its way over Axel's mouth. "You are _dismissed_."

But the questions did not end there.

The Dusks had taken liberties in rebuilding the warehouse after the assault, and now it seemed as if the cramped hallways were _taller_. Lights were everywhere, and a soft glow had begun to radiate from the walls themselves. Towers studded the perimeter. The building had taken on enough mass that it had begun to resemble a fortress rather than a humble storehouse, and more Dusks were appearing by the day.

Axel was always early for breakfast, which alone would have made Vexen suspicious of his character; of all the people the scientist had ever known, only Xehanort and Ansem the Wise had ever shown up willingly in the mornings. Both of them had been clinically demented.

The easygoing cheer with which Axel was buttering his toast when Vexen arrived fell distinctly in the category of the insane.

"So, uh. Tell me." Not waiting until Vexen had even finished pouring a cup of coffee, Axel set down his knife and took a lusty bite of his toast. The grease shone on his upper lip as he grinned at the scientist. "How many worlds are you guys planning to rule over? I mean, who decides who gets which countries when it's all done?"

Vexen found his reach for the sugar dish obstructed by wiry knuckles. He shifted, wondering if he could dodge past the cream and snatch a spoon on the way. "We don't."

Axel's fingers were black spiderlegs. They countered the feint, blocking left, then right. "Hey, no, I understand. Don't want to tell the new guy all your secrets too fast. That's cool. I can wait. Maybe we can book some time in the afternoon together, you can let me know then, 'kay?"

"No," Vexen repeated, thwarted into staring up at the other man, making eye contact only from coercion. "There is _no conquest_. We are _not_ intent on destroying worlds to build an army that will dominate civilizations. We need soldiers, but to defend this city we have now, and protect it from being destroyed by others. _That_ is our goal. The sooner you accept it, the better."

Axel was careful enough to keep any negative expression from crossing his face, though he made a small grunt in his throat, and retreated his arm to his side of the table. "I'm almost disappointed." It was impossible to read any sort of emphasis out of those words; they caught at Vexen's mind like a barbed hook. "When I looked for the cause of all this, I expected to find people who were in control. Instead, this Organization's all about... thinking about things, instead of _doing_ them. Like some kind of weekend getaway."

A glance around the table revealed that none of the other researchers seemed inclined to speak up in their own defense. Xigbar had folded his arms and was regarding the standoff with an expectant smirk. Lexaeus was taking exactingly careful bites of his waffles and refusing to meet anyone's eyes. Only Saix had lifted his head in a dangerous flash of attention - but he remained mute, mute and obedient.

"Memory." The word brought back a sudden flash of Zexion's voice in Vexen's head, so clean that at first, the scientist did not realize it was his own throat that had given the answer. He thought of Ienzo, of Melinda, and lilac flowers. "There's little point in building a world as to live on if we forget who we are in the process, after all."

The revelation held less meaning for Axel, judging from how blithely the redhead shrugged. His spider-fingers toyed with the jam. "Maybe I don't see the use in _having_ that world if you're not going to do anything with it, either. Why aren't we more active?" he pressed. "You said we have enemies, but there are still plenty of worlds out there to claim. I'm betting we could just... sorta, take what's on the fringes. As long as we were careful, who'd notice?"

Disgust coated Vexen's lips, twisting them into a sour grimace; even for the illusion of emotion, it was effective enough. He picked up his spoon and sliced off the top of his boiled egg. The yolk inside leaked the smell of sulfur. "I think you still don't comprehend the situation, Axel. We are not here to lay waste to nations. We just want a place to safely exist."

"It's only the fact that we remember we were once friends that helps keep us working together," Zexion chimed in at last. As calm as if the conversation was happening worlds away, he scooped a chunk of melon out from its rind, and balanced it with expectant relish on his knife. "Without retaining those memories, we also would not remember the reasons we have to keep from killing each other indiscriminately."

From the sudden recoil in Axel's posture, Vexen realized that the redhead did not know if the claim was a joke or not.

Relief came in the form of Xemnas clearing his throat. "I see we should establish at least one guideline early," the man stated softly, setting down his fork with a delicate, metal click on his plate. "Violence is not the rule here, Axel."

"Then what is?"

A brief hint of a smile, and Xemnas reached across the table for the syrup. "Me."

* * *

"Again!"

The clatter of sticks played percussion on the air; a yelp broke the rhythm of combat, followed by a stern command.

All the researchers had turned up to watch Axel being matched against Xaldin on the field. The official sparring yard had resumed use, despite being located snugly against the testing wing of the warehouse. There was no potential security breach at risk. The experiment cells all sat empty, depleted of living resources; most of the Dusks had been too occupied to capture more victims, and no one had assigned them otherwise.

Not only Axel had to endure physical testing. Beside them on the field, Aerlen was being put similarly through her paces. Xaldin had not discussed the mental or emotional status of the girl; the other researchers left a slew of disorganized notes on his shelf in the library, and the lancer had ignored it all. He kept her busy instead by assigning training exercises. The change in physical activity seemed to benefit everyone involved: since Aerlen was too tired at the end of each day to cause trouble, the warehouse was markedly calmer without her mischief to taint it, and even Axel's arrogance seemed dimmed.

That particular morning found Aerlen in the middle of tumbling practice while Axel caught his breath from the match; bruises dotted his bare torso, deep stains that were already mottling a sickly purple. Xaldin seemed tireless as he demanded Aerlen to perform cartwheel after cartwheel, unrelenting with his demands. At times, he would pause, stepping forward to place his hands on her shoulder and back, supporting her through another flip whenever she stumbled.

"Here is life at the end of the world," Vexen announced over Aerlen's faint protests, narrating his own ill temper as blandly as a biology documentary. "This is existence as a Nobody. From what I've been able to determine, that condition involves occasional disasters, interspersed with long stretches of endlessly cycling boredom."

No one responded.

The sound of hands on concrete was giving him a headache; slaps of flesh and the occasional grunt as Xaldin corrected Aerlen's footwork. Now that their main source of entertainment seemed to be over - namely, watching Axel being hit by a variety of sticks - the balcony had lapsed into knots of private contemplation. Zexion did not look up from the book he had brought with him. Xemnas was engaged in some sort of mute argument with Xigbar further down the landing, silently handing a gun back and forth.

Down on the asphalt of the practice yard, Axel was leaning his practice staves against a bench, grabbing a towel off the rack to wipe himself clean with; Aerlen and Xaldin had moved on to engage in what looked like some sort of reflex game, accompanied by knives.

For lack of anyone to stop him, Vexen continued to speak.

"We've accomplished so very little. Xehanort's decay. Experiments out of hand. _How_ long since the Bastion fell, and _what_ do we have to show for it? Perhaps," he added, twisting out the words despite their taste, "Axel is right after all."

"We're still alive." Lexaeus's deep voice spoke up from the near end of the balcony where he was arranging several trays of plants, carefully marking off wooden sticks whose ends were striped with designation colors. "Don't take that for granted. Away!" This last command was barked as quickly as an explosion, bass-voiced and angry. Xemnas and Xigbar's heads jerked up from their conversation like birds to a gunshot; even Zexion blinked and glanced over, his eyes as impenetrable as an animal's.

Just as Vexen thought to inquire about the outburst, he noticed several inky blots of Darkness slipping over the edge of the landing, scattering like dust motes in a breeze. Deciding this was of more interest than the fruitless monotony of the yard, Vexen leaned back against the rail. "So the Heartless are listening to orders now," he hedged. "Why?"

"They're hungry." Lexaeus's suggestion came with an indifferent shrug, no longer concerned now that the pests had dispersed. He lifted one large rack of herbs, shedding a handful of dirt off the rim. "They're hoping if they listen, we'll restock the test subjects, and feed them."

"They can't _hope_," Zexion drawled, closing his book to join in the back-and-forth debate. "Nor should they be conscious enough to plan. They're listening because they're naturally pliable when presented with displays of strength."

"So you're saying that we've become powerful enough that they're starting to take notice of us once more? Is that supposed to be encouraging, hmm?"

"Or they _could_ be obeying hunger after all, Vexen - "

"_What_," Axel said, cutting through the jumble of voices as he exited the balcony stairwell, "are you all talking about?"

They turned as one to face him; instantly, he froze, holding up his hands as if to ward away their attention with the shield of his palms. Then he pulled the towel off his shoulders, wincing as he scrubbed at the bruises on his chest. Exertion had left the crown of his hair in haphazard spikes that were heavy with sweat, and dark as scabbed blood.

"How do you know these things about the Shadows?" he tried again, with a deliberate nonchalance; the act was betrayed by how his eyes kept wandering away from the group before flicking back, as if waiting for an attack that would start as soon as he looked away fully. "You guys must be experts at controlling them by now, right?"

Zexion was the one who caught the challenge, turning the consideration of his gaze upon Axel, his profile shadowed beneath his hair. He made no attempt to push his bangs aside to look at the other man clearly; whatever reason was propelling him to play the game of words did not extend to further hints. "We were apprentices once," he allowed softly, "in magic and in science. We changed the memories of an entire world before, through use of the Darkness. Perhaps by developing our new powers, we could even strip a person of their mind, and turn them into a Dusk."

Axel gave a snorting laugh. Then he sobered. "You can _do_ that?"

"Maybe." Zexion's mouth was a fishhook curve. Then the expression faded away, slipping back into the impenetrable neutrality of his face. "It's been years since we first played with the Darkness. Who knows what we're capable of now?"

Flipping the towel back over his shoulder, Axel held up a hand again in surrender. "I get the point. Great job, making the newcomers feel welcome. Might want to look into that." He ambled over to the main table, taking his time to pour a glass of water before heading back to the railing where Vexen slouched in observation. His shadow draped itself over Vexen's hands. "So, anything new happened lately, oh all-powerful scientist? Something interesting for once?"

The response was a scowl. "Nothing you need to be concerned with, Axel."

"Oh, yeah?" The man's breath was warm as he leaned in. "Try me."

Vexen's shoulders hunched.

"I'm going out," he announced suddenly, making the decision in a snap of impulse and logical distaste. Destinations cycled in his head like figures on a wheel; disregarding the urge to explore, Vexen settled on a familiar route. He pushed off from the railing, and left Axel and his endless queries behind.

Xigbar straightened up as he passed. Vexen heard the gunner voice his name in a curious quirk of sound, but Xemnas remained silent, and then the gate opened before Vexen and took him away.

* * *

All dignity for his departure vanished within five minutes of Vexen's arrival in Twilight, right upon realizing that he hadn't packed supplies for the trip.

It was a less embarrassing plight than it could have been. Abandoned buildings dotted the outskirts of the Town. One of them - a small villa which curved against a rippling hillside - had already been established as an informal waystation for the researchers, and one which Vexen could take full advantage of as an excuse for his escape. He had only visited briefly during the initial arrangements; Zexion had been the one to handle the details of payment, which largely entailed giving enough munny to the groundskeeper to leave them alone.

The higher plateaus of the town were far enough away from the central train station that little traffic passed through, and what did was slow and meandering, not bothering to stop and ring the doorbell to ask for the time of day, or a cup of sugar, or if the Nobodies cared to donate to the next Struggle tournament. None of the Dusks had reported any repeat visitations of the mysterious Keyblade Master that had first signaled the Town as off-limits. The villagers seemed content enough to leave the black coats alone, whenever they did happen to take note of them; like the half-light that clothed the buildings, the inhabitants of Twilight seemed willing to let events fade away into sleepy memories, laconic and at peace.

For all its virtues, the villa was not entirely perfect. Basic supplies still had to be hauled in: food, water, Dusks. The risks of establishing an official outpost remained high, and Zexion maintained that they should not risk habitation past a few months. Still, Vexen found himself appreciative of the chance for stability, in a place to wait that appeared relatively normal.

He picked out the directions to the safehouse at a leisurely pace. The front door opened under his touch. No landlord bustled up to inquire about his business, though the flicker of a white Dragoon retreating down the hall was enough to know that the building had not been left unprotected.

When Vexen had left the dark city, he half-expected a second portal to open behind him with a demand for an explanation in tow. But then a day went by, and then another, and Xemnas did not send anyone to retrieve him.

Apart from the subtle presence of the Dusks, Vexen remained alone.

Vexen considered this fact with the same cold rationality as observing a chemical reaction, and then stopped wondering when a messenger to show.

Finally, deciding not to hide in the villa any longer like an errant boy awaiting punishment, Vexen chose to take his own initiative. He pulled on his jacket, tightening the zippers and buckles in preparation for exploring the town. Dusks flittered in the corners of his vision as he descended the stairs to the main foyer. No more than a handful of the basic models had been assigned as a safeguard - mostly to provide a distraction for attackers, Vexen assumed, in case of a hasty retreat - but one was never far from his side. It was the single concession that his ego might have accepted; if no one chose to drag him home, at least they did not remove his guards either.

There was a strange resistance against the villa's entry door, as if someone had shoved a wet sack of laundry against the front to keep it from blowing open in the wind. Vexen wiggled the handle back and forth experimentally before finally giving a hard shove; the offending object vanished suddenly, and Vexen stumbled forward into the daylight with a barely-restrained yelp, almost tripping over a slender, mop-haired man who looked just as surprised to see him.

The youth recovered first, staring up at him hopefully with all the professional skill of a hungry panhandler. He jingled the wooden cup at his side. "Spare some change, sir?"

Vexen snorted, picking up his foot to step over the obstruction. An instrument case sprawled nearby like a vagrant's crutch for sympathy. Judging from the boy's tattered clothing and level of poverty, his identity was clear: even at the edge of realities, it seemed that beggars would collect like so much detritus. Doubtless, the boy had run off from his family with an idea of surviving on the musical appreciation of others.

From the look of things, it wasn't working.

As Vexen walked away, he heard the whining twang of strings being plucked behind him. The villa would doubtless be uninhabitable for the rest of the day, until the beggar got weary and left. Locking the door was not a concern. If courage - or desperation - caused the boy to think about robbing the place, he would be shortly terminated by the Dusks.

That thought was entertaining enough that Vexen almost thought to stay behind and watch.

He steered himself back onto business with a sigh. Two of the Dusks pulled away from the villa to flit along behind him, winding their bodies around fenceposts and trees, diving in and out of folds in space like dolphins pacing a ship.

Vexen refused to be impressed. "If you're supposed to be protecting me," he snapped, pulling up his hood with a leathery snap, "why don't you eliminate distractions like that?"

They stared back at him silently.

He snorted at their ignorance, and descended the slopes into the town.

* * *

Lacking more delicate scientific instruments, Vexen found himself resorting to whatever was available, hauling out vegetable jars and cooking pots to help contain his experiments. He began from scratch again, abandoning previous theories in favor of a fresh approach: severing limbs off the Dusks provided him raw material without having to create it from the bottom-up, and he had encountered no success while pursuing the latter. No matter how carefully he had worked to cultivate the proper conditions, the artificial cells dissolved away in curls of black smoke. It was an impossible barrier.

Experience with the ENCOM system had proved that limited artificial intelligence was already within reach - but without a will to bind the body together, it seemed as if the flesh would remain inert, and inevitably decay. Unfortunately, the creation of will - of identity, or memory - was not a secret that could be found among the Heartless, with their ravenous hive-mind appetites. The Dusks did not seem to exhibit any useful qualities, but there must have been _something_ powering them, some wan spark that once remembered it had been human, and this was what Vexen found impossible to capture.

After too many wasted attempts spent peeling away legs and arms, he reversed his efforts. Rather than severing flesh from a Dusk and trying to preserve life in the appendage, he began to separate components strategically from his test subjects, removing joint after joint so that he could estimate how much structural damage could be sustained before the inevitable collapse.

A Dusk did not need both legs. It did not need both arms either, and certainly not all of its torso.

The Dusks themselves did not protest the treatment of their comrades, but their population levels did begin to drop. Eventually, he sent one back to the warehouse with the irritated command to fetch more of its brethren for his experiments.

His beggar-plagued isolation was broken soon enough. One afternoon as he returned from the observation of various insects underwater, he discovered Zexion peering in curiosity at the severed head of one Dusk that had been left simmering on the stove, bubbling alongside a teakettle that had been set on one of the other burners.

Vexen went straight to the refrigerator and shoved another jar inside, lining it up alongside the rest of the amputated torsos. "If you've altered the temperature of the cranium," he warned the other researcher peevishly, "I'll have to start all over again, just so you're aware."

"Dissection isn't my thing." A splash betrayed the claim; Vexen straightened up to watch Zexion stick his finger in his mouth thoughtfully, nursing a burn. "Is this your dinner? I hope not."

The kettle trickled a wan serpent of steam. Vexen scooped it up. "Thankfully, the Dusks liberated the hard labors of a bakery this morning, and relocated it to these cupboards. Not from this world," he added, seeing Zexion start to open his mouth in protest. "Do give me _some_ credit for not causing trouble."

If he thought the matter would end there, he was wrong. Even as Vexen wrenched a mug out of the cupboard and poured what remained of the hot water from the kettle, Zexion was frowning. "The more we steal from populated worlds, the more we'll have a chance of being noticed," he cautioned, drying off his hand and moving to investigate the refrigerator.

"And until Lexaeus can manage to grow more than mutated carrots in his gardens, I'll give your suggestion its proper due. Namely, none at all. Everything that's scavenged from the dark city tastes the same after a while anyway - manufactured from reprocessed Darkness, I'm sure." Vexen shook his head, adding another inch of milk to his cup. The teabag bobbed; one of the corners hadn't been secured properly, and a few of the smaller, shredded leaves began to leak. "So in the meantime - what is that _noise_?"

What had been a keening wail from the kettle rose into a shriek that was coming from outside the villa's walls. Vexen shoved the window open, only to have his suspicions confirmed: the street performer had moved directly underneath the kitchen and was tuning the strings of a long-necked instrument that looked as if someone had taken a guitar and done very unfortunate things to it at birth.

He fumbled for the first thing that came to his hands, seizing the kettle and hurling it out the window in a curving arc that would have made any of the Bastion chefs proud.

Expecting the satisfaction of a pained yelp - or at least the clatter of metal on stone - Vexen returned triumphantly to the stove.

Silence followed.

He turned back, frowning out the window.

One of the stray Dusks had darted forward to catch the kettle. By doing so, it had shielded the beggar, who was busy cowering underneath its gangly limbs, clutching his musical apparatus to his body. The boiling water had miraculously spattered in a perfect arc around them both; none of it appeared to have scalded the performer or his instrument, which was an outright tragedy in Vexen's opinion.

"Interesting," Zexion remarked. Pushing past Vexen's elbow, he settled his arms onto the lip of the windowsill like a particularly self-assured cat. "Did you expect that to happen?"

Vexen spared some of his indignance in the other researcher's direction. "Not particularly." Recovering a corner of the window by forcing his weight against Zexion's shoulder, the scientist squinted down at the bizarre tableau. "Dusk," he called out, scowling at the lack of anything better to address the beast with. "I want you to strike that man, not _help_ him."

"No, no," the beggar spoke up hastily. "He really doesn't have to!"

The Dusk wavered, shifting its limbs about like seaweed. Gradually, it began to lower its protective stance, but refused to pull away entirely. No further acknowledgement came; its shoulders bowed like a cowed dog underneath Vexen's glare, and nothing more.

_This is what I get for not keeping them as pets_, the scientist decided sourly, filing the note away in his thoughts with all the other annoyances of his existence, right behind the reminder to restock his liquid mercury, and alongside the memo to someday understand Xemnas's shorthand. Coaxing Dusks to his labs and then giving them awful nicknames had been something Vexen had wanted to avoid, but being disobeyed was intolerable.

Catching sight of the faint smile tracing Zexion's face, he snapped, "Why are _you_ looking so smug about this?"

"Can't you see?" Zexion's eyelids were heavy with contemplation. He extended one languid finger, pointing directly at the musician who was now crab-crawling away, trying to keep the Dusk between himself and the window. "What else could contradict a Nobody's orders - except for another one?"

* * *

They caught the beggar before he managed to escape, cornering him on a ramp leading away from the villa back towards the town. The Dusk had apparently taken it into its head that - even if it could not obey Vexen's direct commands - keeping track of the new Nobody it had protected was sufficient to keep loyalty to them both. It scampered around the musician, herding him carefully along the sidewalk, tripping him up whenever he tried to run.

Eventually, the man must have given up on eluding his escort, because he turned sharply and sat down on the ground.

"I can't believe you didn't notice before," Zexion was laughing as they descended the shallow slope in leisurely pursuit, giving soft chuckles of disbelief. The sun was warm on Vexen's shoulders. It colored Zexion's hair like candy.

"Not all of us have your perceptions," Vexen growled back. "Should I pay attention to every piece of street trash that blows in my direction?"

"The _musician_." The emphasis made the word into an invocation; Zexion slid his hands into his pockets as he walked. "Not trash. The Dusks don't interact with people normally. But this one responded to him. Don't you find that suspicious?"

Unwilling to concede, Vexen only gave a sniff. "_Everything_ is illogical these days," he declared loftily. "If I put any effort into keeping track of what was normal, I'd have changed projects long ago to something that wasn't a _complete_ waste of time."

When they finally caught up with the beggar, he was hunkered down against the glass windows of an abandoned furniture store. Wooden chairs stared back at his plight dispassionately as he curled his body into a protective ball, legs crouched. The neck of the instrument jutted out from between his arms, cradled to his body like a grossly swollen infant; the case must have been left behind.

He swallowed, spasmodically, and announced in a brave whisper, "Please don't hurt my sitar."

"Stop being an idiot, and we won't have to," Vexen snapped. The beggar seemed no more remarkable now than any of the other dozen times he'd cluttered Twilight's streets. His pants were ragged, and the sashed robe around his chest looked as if it had seen better days, so worn that it seemed more grey than blue. Everything was clean, though threadbare - and not a single significant power had triggered to give any indication of the man's true nature as a Nobody. If it wasn't for Zexion's indication, Vexen would have pinned it all back to coincidence, and returned to the villa to forget the matter forever.

But when Vexen reached out towards the musician's chest, vaguely planning to check for any vital signs, the beggar went completely still. He took a deep breath; when he spoke, his voice was as hard as a glacier, as impenetrable as a storm. "I don't want to fight anything."

In the words, Vexen heard warning, and dropped his hand.

"Then you'll die," he announced, equally unyielding, equally cold. "You'll die, because the Light will find you, or the Darkness will, and there's no place to stand between. Without the willingness to protect yourself, you'll be hunted down for sport and killed. It's inevitable."

For all the dire nature of his predicament, the beggar did not cower again. "I'm not a man of violence. On my world... we celebrated life. We didn't destroy it."

"Then I have a suggestion for you," Vexen replied, leaning close, close enough that he could smell the oddly salty tang of the musician's skin, the oil of his rakish hair - and the lack of real fear to cloud the man's sweat, despite all the pretense of terror.

"_Run._"

* * *

They did not see the musician around the villa after that. Zexion chose not to contest Vexen's decision - chose not to, or found it more interesting to leave the latest Nobody to its own devices, Vexen was not certain. Such a decision was for the best, in the scientist's opinion. Power could not be found in cowardice, and what else could it be _but_ cowardice, choosing to flee knowledge rather than seek it out?

"A musician," he grumbled, extracting a row of jars from the refrigerator and seeing how many Dusk-fingers had already dissolved. "A _pacifist_."

No messages had come from the warehouse. No inquires for progress reports had appeared either. If Xemnas had deprioritized the creation of new Dusks, Vexen decided mulishly, then it wouldn't make a difference if the scientist took time off from the project, and finished it on his own schedule.

That, and he couldn't afford to let Zexion get away with any new discoveries, either.

He confronted the other researcher after a long afternoon spent watching the collapse of Dusk-body prototypes in one of the study rooms. White flesh congealed like lumps of jam and inevitably broke apart once more, lifeless without an animating force. "You've been coming by quite often, but you haven't explained why," he began, trying to sound indifferent as he filtered another vial of solution clean of offending flesh. "A few nights, and I'd blame it on curiosity, or not having anyone else around to listen to you ramble - except that you've been suspiciously quiet. Then Lexaeus starts to come by. _Don't_ think I haven't noticed him in town," he continued, picking up speed - and turned to discover that Zexion had already left the room, abandoning the conversation halfway.

He caught up to the other researcher in the kitchen, where Zexion had started to make tea. Silverware clattered as fingers that were customarily nimble slid the drawer closed, hard enough that the wood jerked and tried to catch in its socket. Zexion straightened it with an impatient tug.

Vexen snatched the man's spoon and cup away, claiming them for himself. "You're dodging the question. What _are_ the two of you preparing here?"

Bereft of his excuse, Zexion leaned against the counter, staring out at the open window. The smell of tea leaves seeped through the kitchen air. The breeze was replete with the heavy decorations of summer: the rich odor of bakeries, the humidity of fresh grass, stormclouds swimming on the horizon.

Just as Vexen began to give up on any response, Zexion opened his mouth.

"We're going to try looking for home."

The spoon dangled from Vexen's fingers. "Is that even possible?"

A clot of wings swooped close to the windows before shattering into individual birds; the flock settled into the trees, and Zexion remained immobile. "Over the weeks, Lexaeus and I have been able to triangulate the greatest concentration of Darkness we've been able to find so far. That must be where Radiant Garden lies." After a moment, his shoulders finally eased; he folded his arms, but there was no tension in his face when he glanced back. "We... haven't told him."

There was no question of who was being referred to. Vexen set the spoon on the counter. "If he finds out, he'll try to stop you."

"Stop us," Zexion agreed pleasantly, "or insist on going himself. Which do you think is worse?"

Turning off the stove with a click, Vexen stared at the empty cup. "Then there's only one way to keep him from finding out while you're gone," he declared, wondering if the brazen confidence of his voice would have been false, had he still possessed a heart. "You'll have to bring me with you."


	14. Chapter 14

They opened the portal in an unused bedroom on the second floor that was being used to store spare supplies. Other researchers had left various tools, clothing, and trash during their own visits; Vexen was not certain if he was meant to save a scrap of shredded lace that had been folded on a corner of the mattress, or who it might belong to. The seagull feathers wrapped in tissue paper were equally a mystery. Even a pair of Xaldin's boots had discarded in the corner. One of them had tipped over, laces spilling everywhere.

The villa's collection of Dusks bobbed and hovered in the hallway as the three of them reviewed the calculations. Zexion had suggested that the trip be made in secrecy, without any guards that might trigger the senses of the Heartless. It was by his initiative that they chose a time, a day; it was by his calculations that they plotted the route, tracing it star by star.

When the time came, Zexion closed his eyes and stroked his fingers across the gate that formed underneath his power, smoothing the ink patiently until it resolved in a stable oval.

Only when he opened them again with a nod of approval did Lexaeus move, leading the way forward into blackness.

The tunnel shivered as they walked through it, following one after another like schoolchildren making tracks in the snow. The familiar whirl of symbols lining the corridor had been replaced by static; white curves shattered and reformed into red-and-black thorns, splintering from Nothingness into Darkness, an inky trail that spread out like a plague beneath their boots.

When they broke into clean air at last, even the dust smelled fresh.

The chamber they landed in was half-shadowed and cramped. When Vexen took a step forward, he felt the portal whisper shut behind him; through the gloom, he picked out scattered impressions of furniture. Zexion's coordinates had taken them to what appeared to be a student's dormitory bedroom. Even while scanning the room for threats, Vexen was able to note the cheap bunking of the bedframe, a wooden desk in the corner, and a rickety coatrack that bore a thin scarf off one prong.

The room had been abandoned in haste. A book sprawled face-down on the floor, pages splayed and folded.

Vexen nudged it with his foot.

They must have landed in the residential wing of the castle, he decided, intended for families of palace workers and apprentices to the mundane laborers, any staff who were not being trained personally by the king. He had made his own quarters here, once - before Ansem had taken a second child in, and then another, and then an entire floor was segregated aside for the king's insane urge to rear apprentices instead of heirs.

The child who had occupied this particular room must have had a knight as a parent. An empty sword rack was hammered over the bed. A novice's belt hung off a chair; it was adorned with practice badges, numerous decorative symbols that had been strung together to prove the child's ability to not drown in the rain. Here and there, an ornate plant had been picked out of the furnishings in a familiar crafter's stamp: one leaf, two leaves, gardens.

Vexen found that he was studying the marks for longer than he expected. _This is the Bastion_, he affirmed to himself, quietly; then again, when the realization did not seem to sink in. _This is Radiant Garden. We've made it home at last._

Apparently, Lexaeus had the same doubts. "Are we positive about this?" he rumbled.

Zexion nudged back the heavy curtains, and took a single glance out the window.

"Look," he whispered, pointing up at the pale circle that loomed above the courtyards.

It was the same face that had haunted them all throughout their youth. The vast, ornate clock that had been installed on one of the towers had ruled the apprentices' lives as students, mercilessly impervious against tampering no matter how many schemes they had hatched to try and extend time before a test or to shorten the study day. Vexen's eyes automatically sought out the flat, scythe-like hands, each heavy enough to crush a man beneath their weight should they fall; the golden blades had never failed to slice off each passing hour into the appropriate number of minutes and seconds, exactingly precise.

At first Vexen started to count off the time, finding the smaller markers in the corners of the motif that marked the year, month, and day. Then he realized the massive golden hands were not moving, and what he assumed was fog was actually dust covering the ornate tines.

_Over six years gone_, he tallied up, estimating what he remembered in comparison to what was left showing now. The time felt unreal. As a student, he had imagined himself as a great scientist by the time his third decade had rolled around, honored and credited for numerous advancements that would improve the quality of Bastion life within a handspan of years. He would have had apprentices of his own; he would have had an estate in the countryside, and visitors every weekend inquiring after his advice for one matter or the other, listening seriously to each word he chose to deliver. He would have dignity. Authority. Respect.

_So falls the ambitions of children_, he thought darkly to himself as he turned away from the window, away from the shelf of student manuals and the cracked, framed photograph left forlornly on one corner of the desk.

Zexion had already departed. Lexaeus hovered in the doorway, glancing up and down the hall until he seemed to reorient himself, and then strode away into the gloom.

For his part, Vexen knew what to seek out first. The particular stairwell he was hunting for branched off from the lower floors of the student dormitories, winding through the smaller practice labs until it eventually broke free into open air, circling around the outside of the castle. This, he located with a minimum of effort. The castle bore the stains of its attackers, but many of the floors were still intact - and as he stepped outside onto the first terrace, he saw the Heartless at last.

Dozens of them were swarming across the once-pristine stones of the Bastion. Everything from the Pureblood Shadows to brutal Defenders prowled the ravaged walkways, building a black mockery out of the revels that had once been held there before. Bell-like Operas soared upon the wind, followed by flocks of Nocturnes. It was a stark reversal of the prosperity the Garden had once known; the castle could not be considered dead and abandoned, but all of its current inhabitants were monsters.

He picked his way carefully. None of the Heartless gravitated towards him; even when he turned a corner and found himself directly in the path of a massive wyvern, it did not spare more than a glance in his direction. Walking beside the creatures felt like threading the jaws of a beast. None of them reacted to his presence - but none of them _would_ react, would give any sign that they considered him a hostile entity, right up until they attacked.

It was impossible to determine when the trap might slam shut. His only warning would be their teeth.

Vexen held his breath, and tried not to think about it as a flight of wyverns passed overhead, their wingbeats as heavy as the heartbeats they were composed of.

It was over ten flights down from the dormitory access point to reach the basement exit of the laboratories, and each step of the way became fractionally more bleak. Vexen made it down nine before he was forced to stop. The only paths he could see were encased in a roiling cage of Darkness; even the hover-platforms were covered with shadows, implying nothing but instability. The way was completely blocked. Every scaffold was completely covered, visible only in brief moments as the dark mist ebbed and wavered.

Vexen surveyed the landings with disgust. Since the initial disaster had erupted from the laboratories themselves, he would have expected that a certain concentration would remain - but what he saw oozing from the belly of the castle went beyond all conservative estimations. If he forced his way inside, he could become trapped inside layers of power that would devour him whole.

Even though he did not possess a heart, the Darkness was not completely harmless. The assault on the warehouse had proven as much.

He drifted away from the laboratory entrance and back inside the castle, unwilling to completely abandon the data stored underground; so much of his work with artificial Dusks would be improved upon if only he had access to the ENCOM system, perhaps with the option to download a copy of the TRON program for personality extrapolation. It was unfortunate that he would not be able to recover any of the older equipment, but the risks were intolerably high so long as the Darkness remained concentrated in its current state.

He walked with only a passing interest for his destination, turning over scattered fragments of memory as he navigated the ruin the Bastion had become. Huge, thorny vines had wrapped themselves around each layer of the castle in a strange marriage of stone and plant, an infestation that resembled organic parasites feeding off the architecture. Thirsty roots burrowed into the marble as if to desperately seek sustenance. Vexen did not touch them as traced his fingers along the walls and windowsills, uncaring if he left spidery trails behind in the dust; only one window in the hallway was clear enough to see outside, and he gave it a cursory glance as he passed by.

In the courtyard below, a person was burning.

Green flames licked at their body, enveloping a silhouette that oozed forth from an elongated portal in the air. Darkness pulled itself away from the gateway like taffy to wrap around the thin, stick-like figure, forming a cloak that was fringed like the wings of a bat. It was a woman in the way he had always envisioned the deadliest vipers to be female, or the most elegant of poisonous spiders: delicate, but filled with a remorseless hunger.

Then through the black portal came another being; this one was as round as the first was straight, with the stern jaw of a bull terrier mastiff lurking between its thick shoulders. It swaggered forward with aggressive dignity, and then promptly stubbed its toe on a broken flagstone.

_Not Heartless_, Vexen decided, hearing a muffled wail come from the dog-man's throat. Unless the criteria for Shadows had changed dramatically without his awareness, Heartless should have been unable to speak. His next guess - looters, come to search the castle for hidden treasures - was dispelled almost as quickly, when the rest of the woman's escort filtered through the gate. Dozens of tiny figures waded through the ghostly flames without hesitation, resolving into the smaller, twisting shapes of primal Heartless, interspersed with the occasional red stamp of an Emblem.

Regaining its balance, the beast-man shook its jowls. In pantomime, it stamped its feet; the ghastly woman did not seem to care, but a gesture of her hand froze the beast in place, taming his anger. Whatever she might have said to chastise him slipped past Vexen's ears. The conversation remained trapped behind the smoky glass.

Wrinkling his nose in disgust, Vexen was about to push the window open when he caught sight of a new shape across the courtyard.

Perched far above the two conspirators on one of the rooftops, another figure was watching. It only barely kept its outline intact, hooded and cloaked, blurring around the edges as if constantly forgetting to pretend to be a human being. Around its feet, a black worm coiled; when the monster rolled, it exposed the red-thorned Emblem on its belly, churning like an endlessly bleeding wound.

This third stranger and its attendant Heartless made no motion to join its companions. Vexen would not have recognized its existence if he hadn't been so familiar with the castle's architecture that he knew which outlines were statues and which were not.

He watched the rooftop for a moment longer, curious, but unaffected.

Then the figure turned its hood, slowly tracking the woman and her companion as they departed deeper into the castle.

Vexen flinched back before he could stop himself; _fear_ could not cross the void that existed where his heart had once been, but a chill stole over his thoughts regardless. The sharp lines of the creature's jaw and nose were familiar, _too_ familiar, even after being burnished with darkness until the skin had become as rich as burnt caramel. The hairline was hidden underneath the cowl. The smile was exactly the same.

Recognition tore through him like lightning. He jerked his hood up quickly, hoping that the creature had not seen him. It took what felt like hours before his feet would obey; with each wasted second, Vexen counted off a dozen more useless spells, rotes and cantrips that could do nothing to defend himself from the creature that had stolen the face of an old friend.

No beasts snapped at his heels as he retreated down the hallways, taking side corridors and serviceways, looping around half-remembered paths that he had last visited while still a child. The inner machinery of the Bastion remained largely intact despite the years. Hidden doors opened under his touch, gears grinding in protest as he fled, watched over by the face of a dead clock.

The other two researchers had already returned to the dormitory by the time he pelted through the door. Lexaeus had his head bowed over bottles of soil and plant samples, dutifully wrapping them in cloth to keep the containers from cracking in transit. Zexion had two stacks of books that were rigged together by what looked like curtain sashes, bundled like library references being carried home for study by an overenthusiastic boy.

When they looked at him - fumbling the locks shut automatically, despite how useless a door would be against the Shadows - Vexen blurted, "I've just seen Xehanort's Heartless."

Lexaeus's mouth resolved in a grim line. "Then we've overstayed our welcome."

They prepared to leave the dormitory without further investigation, abandoning the opportunities for knowledge in favor of survival. Lexaeus summoned the doorway without waiting to see if anything had come in pursuit of Vexen; black tendrils bubbled up from the stones, and then twined together in an archway that gradually filled itself in, rippling like ink infecting a pond of clear liquid.

Then it collapsed, dispersing back into the air.

Zexion waited patiently for a few moments as the darkness rippled around their feet, cresting and breaking in soundless waves. Then he spoke. "What's wrong?"

Lexaeus frowned. "The gate is struggling."

No concern tainted Zexion's reply - as if, now that their situation was narrowed down to its very last option, he had already determined patience to be the best resort. "We must get out somehow."

"I'll try again."

"Please."

Ignoring the chatter, Vexen whirled back towards the window. From the room's vantage point, he could see over the expanse of the nearest courtyard, all the way to the broken clock tower, nearly to edge of the Rising Falls. _This_ was once his home, before the Heartless came - before the six of them had invited the Darkness in, opening their hearts and doors without hesitation for the consequences. Now it was the center of enemy forces, of strangers walking the stones and bringing their cheap plans with them, and there was nothing Vexen could do to shirk responsibility for what had occurred.

He regarded the ruined castle steadily for another moment, and then turned away.

* * *

The villa's kitchen seemed too small with all three of them there. Lexaeus moved into one corner early, murmuring an apology as he arranged his jars of dirt by the window; Zexion simply dumped his books directly on the table, ignoring the arrangement of Vexen's notes that had been carefully laid out in neat piles for further reading. Even though none of them bumped shoulders, they still moved gingerly around each other - as if the new knowledge they all bore had a tangible weight, clinging to the hems of their jackets and hoods.

Zexion talked all through the preparations for dinner, relying on a wandering monotone of logic that wound like a thread through the rhythm of his knife on the cutting board. "So the touch of Xehanort is present in this mystery as well," he offered bluntly, flipping a carrot around so that its spine lined up with its brethren. "It must have been Xehanort's Heartless that gave the order for Axel to be hunted, if he's not directly guiding the conspirators you saw. Perhaps there _is_ a connection that explains the creation of Nobodies."

"But Xehanort's Heartless had nothing to do with the beggar," Vexen countered swiftly, the words coming out in a distracted puff. He had managed to extricate his papers from underneath Zexion's books, but putting them back in order was an entirely different story. "He would _never_ have chosen someone with such little value."

"Are you sure?"

There was no answer for that. Lexaeus was a silent monolith on the other side of the kitchen table, patiently tagging bags with a pen. Trying to determine the hidden powers of a feather-headed musician sounded like a losing proposition; Vexen chose instead to turn the subject back around. "Will you tell Xemnas what we saw?"

Zexion picked up the cutting board with both hands. "I don't think he wants to know."

But whatever secrets Zexion could keep were not so easy by Vexen's perspective. The knowledge sat in his brain like a rotting tooth. He worried at it impatiently, restless as a child. There were reasons not to tell Xemnas and reasons to inform him, and none of them gave Vexen any insight into which decision was best.

When the distraction was bad enough that Vexen found himself scrawling the same line of data over and over again in his ledger, he abandoned any care for Zexion's opinion, and went to Xemnas's office under the pretense of delivering a report.

For once, the man was not missing in some far corner of the world, impossible to be found. The lamps in his office had been dimmed in a false twilight. With the curtains drawn back, the brilliance of the city outside the windows seemed to crawl in, spreading vague shadows across the furniture and floor.

Even without light, Xemnas gleamed. The leathers of his jacket caught the shine from the city and fetched it against the black of his gloves. He moved as if he had forgotten what it was to be touched by the sun, to wince against its glare - to be awake and aware that someone else could see him. His coat was zipped tight along his body like a second skin. Though Vexen took a seat on one side of the man's desk, Xemnas remained standing, prowling about the room in slow rolls that ran from his boots all the way up to the tilt of his shoulders and skull.

The stack of files went onto the desk, one by one, each summarized in monotone. Vexen had brought several detailed compilations of his work as a defensive measure against interrogation, but Xemnas demonstrated no interest in browsing through the documents. Eventually, winding down in his verbal presentation, Vexen cut his own words off halfway in an exasperated sigh.

He wasn't sure how to begin, so he tried, "We found your Heartless the other day," which turned out to be completely the wrong thing.

"Do you want us to try and recover it?" he managed, after Xemnas was done stalking and grumbling and raving.

"No," Xemnas declared. He was walking normally now, crisp clicks of his heels against the floor rather than sailing like a dreamer. "It would just get in the way."

Vexen blinked.

He tried again, using logic as his device. "It seems to be quite strong, Xemnas - we saw at least two allies under its influence, possibly more, and this without counting the Shadows themselves. Its control over the Darkness and destruction of the worlds is undoubtedly what is increasing our Dusk population. Seizing your heart would add to your powers." When Xemnas did not respond, Vexen pressed, "Our hearts _are_ what we have been trying to recover. Aren't they?"

When even that won no reaction, Vexen paused against the words that rapidly threatened to boil up and choke together in his throat. Finally, he spat out his conclusion. "It would turn you back into _Xehanort_," he snarled, angered without being angry. "It would _fix you_."

At first, he wondered if he had gone too far; then, when Xemnas tilted his head towards him, a careless, lunatic's grin crawling over his face, Vexen wondered if he had not gone far enough. "That's the _problem_, Vexen." Xemnas's eyes did not match his mouth. The twin flames had narrowed, devoid of mischief, creating a contrast of madness and sanity to war across his dark skin. "I'm _not_ Xehanort, not anymore. I'm my own person. As are the rest of you. I want a heart. But I don't want _my_ heart. I want - " Breaking off there, he closed his eyes suddenly, inhaling sharp enough to be a gasp. The disjointed expression smoothed itself away, folding itself back underneath his bones like a dying moth.

Ignoring the possibility of intellectual turmoil that might be plaguing Xemnas's thoughts, Vexen steeled his glare. "What do you propose instead, then, Xemnas? What insight do you have to share?"

But it was too late. The hint of vulnerability had escaped again, turning Xemnas back into something indecipherable, hidden inside layers of leather and shadow. "Leave the papers on the desk," he ordered softly, reaching out to brush his fingers across the hem of Vexen's sleeve in a touch that was both invitation and rejection all at once. Then he dropped his hand. "I'll get to them later. As for yourself, you may return to your labs. I'm sure you have much left waiting."

"Xemnas - "

"Go."

Rigid with irritation, Vexen shoved himself stiffly up from his chair; he reached automatically for his files despite the order, and forced himself to step away with an effort.

As his fingers settled on the door, Xemnas spoke again.

"Vexen?"

The scientist paused. It took him a moment before he could find the breath for a response; his mind felt as if it had been locked inside a glacier, flash-frozen to keep from working correctly. "Yes?"

"Don't ever think you're capable of capturing my heart."

Half a dozen retorts came to Vexen's lips; half a dozen thoughts, tripping over the semantics of language and the hidden riddles on Xemnas's tongue. There was no means of exiting gracefully without voicing one of the hundred responses aloud - but Vexen only inclined his head, ignoring them all, and left.

* * *

Visiting the laboratories reminded Vexen of several experiments that had not been fully packed away in his absence; he expected cracked beakers and ruined chemicals, a whole array of tests that had been too minor for him to care about, and would have gone awry without his attention. But nothing had been destroyed in his absence. It was impossible to have been mere luck. Someone had gone through systematically and turned off the hot plates and burners, storing the more delicate equipment and covering up any fluids that needed proper attention.

He was in the middle of mulling over the riddle when the doors crashed open; a warning was already on his tongue as he whirled, and it died when he saw the nature of the intrusion.

Xaldin was planted in the doorway. Foul weather must have caught him on the road, for he dripped puddles of rainwater with each step. The thick locks of his hair glistened with beads of moisture. He had been stripped of his jacket, and had wrapped it around the lump slung over his shoulder that kicked and whined: two legs wrapped in leather and silver zippers, as if the lancer had been forced to catch his victim like a cat in a sack and haul them home.

Without preamble, Xaldin strode inside and dumped his burden on the floor of Vexen's laboratory, untangling his jacket away from flailing limbs to reveal the street musician from Twilight.

At first, Vexen wondered if the lancer had been solicited for pocket change one too many times; then the doorway grew dark once more, and Xemnas was there, sweeping in like a white hawk with Xigbar in tow.

The fire of his gaze was fixed directly on Vexen.

The beggar's sitar was missing. Vexen found himself hoping it had been destroyed in the struggle, or lost between worlds to drift forever in silence. Whichever the truth, the beggar was making enough noise to make up for it. "Leave me alone! Stop! I think I can't breathe!"

"Xemnas." Vexen ignored the display. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Any sarcasm was utterly lost; Xemnas offered a slight smile, his stare unwavering. "You've been taking your work to Twilight frequently, Vexen. How did you neglect a find like this? Or was it that you created him somehow, and simply haven't told the rest of us? I didn't find any mention of him in your reports."

"And how did _you_ realize he was a Dusk?" Vexen parried back, refusing to confirm or deny the accusations.

"Saix told me. Or, as best he could. I think he had a seizure. We shoved a napkin in his mouth, just in case." Shrugging away the intensity of his own gaze, Xemnas prowled towards the nearest lab table, where he began to poke at a rack of Dusk-skin samplings. "It took a while to understand exactly what he meant, but there were enough Dragoons to start investigating the closer worlds, and eventually, they turned up with this."

Vexen turned back resolutely towards his desk, fixating on the numbers arranged in neat rows on the paper, as if Xemnas was of no more notice than an errant fly. "He's a musician," he stated calmly. "You had Xaldin bring back a _street musician_. What good is your pet diviner if you can't use him to discover anything worthwhile?"

"Better than someone who finds nothing at all," was Xemnas's soft, poisonous response. He did not even bother to exit through the door; Vexen felt a whisper of power slide across his cheek, saw a flicker of ink blooming out of the corner of his eye, and then the man was gone.

Lexaeus's arrival nearly intercepted the gate directly; he pushed through the open doorway before the shadows even had time to clear, shoving past where Xaldin was attempting to wring dry the fabric of his sodden clothing. He cast one thoughtful glance towards where Vexen was still pretending to read - and had ended up watching out of a corner of his eye, despite himself - and then squatted beside where the beggar had chosen to cower, shoulders hunched. "Take a deep breath." Practical despite the odds, Lexaeus waited until the order was obeyed, and then commanded sternly. "Let it out. Now. Are you really afraid of us?"

"No." The answer was released in a sudden blurt, and the musician blinked. "I mean, I think I am. I know I should be. But I'm not - there's some kind of - who are - "

With one hand, Lexaeus pushed at the beggar's shoulder until the man leaned back against a table leg. The musician's lungs continued to heave in exaggerated swells; Lexaeus relocated his fingers from shoulder to chest, pressing down until the rhythm steadied. "Not really panicked? You can still think clearly even when you're supposed to be afraid? Good. That's a good sign."

"Ok." Xigbar hunkered down, straightening out the folds of his jacket like a crow cleaning its feathers to make certain each hung perfectly straight. "Down to business. What's your name?"

"Myde."

Xigbar paused. "I'm sorry."

The musician flushed, a pink wave of embarrassment creeping over his cheeks; Vexen took the time to note the artificial effect. "Look, you didn't ask me here just to make fun of me, right?" He wet his lips with his tongue, and only then dared to wave his fingers gingerly in Xigbar's direction. "What, um. What happened. To your face."

For one moment, Xigbar only stared; then comprehension dawned, and he leaned forward with a rapturous grin. "It's... it's the Superior," he confided, grimacing in exaggerated terror. "He beats me _every night_."

Myde flinched. "_What?_"

Xigbar pursued the helpless musician, leaning in further. "He pushes me down the stairs whenever he's bored. _And we have a lot of stairs_."

"Shh!" interrupted Xaldin in a gravely whisper, joining in the game. He jerked his head towards the open laboratory doors. "Someone might hear you!"

Lexaeus shot them both what looked like a dangerously stern glare; then he pulled himself to his feet, dusting off his knees. Without wasting any further time, he extended a hand down to the hapless newcomer. "Want to make yourself useful, Myde? I could use extra help on the terraces. The plants flood too much underneath all the rain, but die inside without starlight. The transplanted seeds found off-world aren't surviving without natural sun." His matter-of-fact declarations offered, Lexaeus shoved at Xigbar with the tip of one boot. "Now, let's get moving before Vexen throws us out for the disruption."

Of all the places to seek out any last hopes, it was towards Vexen that Myde turned: one wide-eyed, helpless glance that said everything of a desire for peace, and none for war.

Vexen only arched an eyebrow.

"You should have run," he warned under his breath, not caring if the musician could hear while he was being dragged away. Lines of data unspooled beneath the tip of his pen; lines of analysis and dissection and experimentation fit themselves neatly on the framework of the page. "You should have run."

* * *

With the musician safely in other hands - either Lexaeus's direct intervention had rearranged the order of the evaluation period, or Xigbar had taken it in his head to plan some sort of further mischief for his newest target - the luxury of time found its way back into Vexen's labs. He took advantage of the peace ruthlessly. Whatever business the other researchers indulged in held little concern for him, so long as it did not involve Xemnas directly, and Vexen had no interest in the Organization's new toys.

Like his missing heart, the changes felt real and absent all at once. Everything was mutating while remaining exactly the same. Some mornings, Zexion and Lexaeus spoke quietly together over the breakfast table, but only about the city's weather. There were days that Saix sat at Xemnas's right hand during meals, and days when it was Xigbar.

Through it all, Axel watched, and asked his questions.

But few people came down to the labs, and those who did were easily turned away. Demyx had shown up one afternoon to drop off paperwork and stammer out the pronunciation of his replacement name, and several evenings after that, Vexen saw Saix walking by with a sword that was easily as large as he was. Zexion had taken up fielding much of Axel's inquiries, but nothing the two spoke about seemed to impact anyone's research priorities. Even Xemnas was a constant, in the same way that a solar flare was stable: deadly, churning with power, and hypnotic with its own destructive grace.

Rather than wonder exactly what kind of influences were coming into the city, Vexen chose to ignore the dilemma instead, along with its twin: not only were the interactions of the Organization undergoing a gradual shift, but their building remained in turmoil. The warehouse - the _castle_, he corrected himself, since after visiting the Bastion again, the similarity was unmistakable - had not become completely unrecognizable over the weeks, but the rooms had changed again, shifting around in some sort of cluster that now provided a central entrance hall. The massive, arching white chamber no longer bore any resemblance to the cramped warehouse floor that six bedraggled apprentices had stumbled into, shuddering from the rain.

He had less interest for the architecture than he might once have; so long as the laboratories were stable, Vexen did not find it in himself to care if the dining hall could fit ten or twenty. His bed had blankets. His clothes were kept neat and clean. In light of his most recent experiments, nothing else about the castle mattered - not the castle, not the city, and _not_ whatever trouble the other members of the ridiculously-named Organization had found next, because what he had discovered trumped them all.

Amidst the dozens of his failed dissections, one Dusk had finally managed to survive.

This latest construct had managed to hold itself together long enough to crawl out of its test tube. With some careful prodding - thankfully, Lexaeus had not noticed the loss of one of his shovels - Vexen had coaxed the melon-sized blob of white flesh to inch its way out of the labs, and down the hall.

Stairs were a problem. The blob did not have the strength to pull itself up over obstacles, nor the comprehension to understand that it should do more than wander back and forth along a single shelf. Vexen had eventually grown tired of watching the specimen struggle blindly against each tiny vertical ledge, and had made good use of the shovel to repeatedly lob the thing along like a clump of wet mud.

It was slow progress up from the laboratories to the middle levels of the castle. Rather than approach the steeper paths, Vexen chose an easier slope, taking a shortcut across one hallway to an open-aired walkway. The new path spun in a flat horizontal around the castle, overlooking the gardens below that had migrated further inwards among the architecture, nestling like jeweled eggs away from the city streets.

The wailing voice of the sitar trickled up as he walked. Now that it wasn't in the process of being tuned - and he knew what the instrument was meant to be, rather than his first impressions of it as a mistake that had been glued together wrong - the noise was not particularly bad, but it remained unfamiliar, and his ears found it awkward by default.

The walkway was regrettably not private. Aerlen had taken up one of the benches, turned so that she could look out over the garden; her legs were hooked through the gaps in the balcony rail, feet dangling free. The two Dusks assigned to guard her were flittering, moth-like, around the chandelier light that swayed gently overhead.

He caught up to the girl as she was sitting there, her head resting on one arm while she chewed on her lip. "Keeping out of trouble?"

"Maybe." He must have caught her in an introspective mood; she did not look up to taunt him, but only continued to watch the distant blots of the other Nobodies below. When she stirred at last, it was only to extend her arms in a languid stretch towards the courtyard where Demyx was performing, letting her fingers hang in a half-curve down.

Her expression stayed remote. "You can find a reason to keep _him_, but not me."

"Clearly, he has something which you lack."

"Oh?" Finally she lifted her head. Her cheek was creased from the hem of her sleeve, running lines from her nose to her chin. "What's that?"

"Value."

For one moment, Aerlen held herself perfectly still. Then she drew herself to her feet, the leather of her jacket hissing like a snake. She was not tall enough to look Vexen directly in the eye, but she lifted her chin as if the difference did not matter, glaring at him with a resentment that all the more powerful for being _real_. "I hate you."

"Good," he replied pleasantly, not missing a beat. "You'll attract Shadows that way, and get killed even faster."

She punched him in the arm.

He managed to uncurl from his wince just in time to watch her almost knock Axel over as she dashed down the walkway; the redhead splayed his arms and Aerlen ducked underneath, slamming against his leg. The shovel had fallen to the ground with a crash during the girl's attack. Vexen accidentally kicked it when he stumbled forward, nearly crushing the test specimen as he did.

The blob squirmed away hastily underneath the bench. Axel folded his arms.

"I, uh, don't think she likes it when you treat her like she's already dead, Vexen."

When the scientist turned his glare upon him, Axel strolled forward with an infuriating calm, rather than take the hint to leave. "Hey," he added genially, "I'm just saying."

The unwarranted familiarity yanked on Vexen's nerves and left his mouth full of curses. With satisfaction, he noted that Glorp 1.0 - as the scientist was now thinking of his motile protege - had oozed over to Axel, and was now trying to either make friends with or consume the redhead's foot.

Axel wrinkled his nose and stepped back. Glorp followed.

Vexen hid a smirk as the other man shuffled. Tilting his chin so that he could eye Axel down the bridge of his nose, he pitched his voice as loftily as it could manage. "Can I ask why you're intruding on my time?"

At first he thought that the redhead would only attempt to mock him back, but Axel's expression was curiously sober. "Thought I'd see if I could get an answer to a certain question, now that I've had a chance to learn more about this place. What are you all playing at here?"

"What do you mean?"

"This. Music, rooms, _her_." A sharp jab of his hand towards the direction that Aerlen had run, and Axel switched his finger towards the courtyards. "It's like you're trying to pretend you're human again. That if you _act_ like real people long enough, you will be. Even the things you _talk_ about are just imitations of real conversation. If losing a heart turns you into some kinda personality zombie, I'd like mine back now, thanks."

Battered by the redhead's tart accusations, Vexen wrinkled his mouth in a sneer. "We - "

But Axel had not finished. "This little family you're building here isn't going to last," he drawled, shaking his head in a lion's warning toss. "Maybe it's fine for _you_ to live this way, but it's not going to be enough. I went looking for the cause of my world's destruction because I wanted to understand the unknown, but all that's here is a bunch of guys who don't even know what's going on either."

Glorp was beginning to wind down in activity. The surface of its skin had started to flake. What had been hatched as a flawless white was now turning steadily grey; the consistency of its muscles were hardening. Fetching the shovel off the ground, Vexen drove the point of the blade down onto the creature, splitting it in half like a garden grub. Black tissues began to ooze out, a pudding that promptly dissolved into mist. "Even Xemnas?"

The name was spoken on impulse, but its effect was immediate. Axel withdrew by a step. "No. No, he's doing his own thing. I don't want to go near _him_. So tell me," he added, and his voice was deceptively reasonable. "What am I supposed to do in the meantime, until something good shows up? _Completely_ open to suggestions here."

Again, Vexen stabbed the experimental Dusk, dividing it into smaller parts which finally lost all cohesion and melted away into nothingness. The walkway stones were left clean; no Dusk had ever left a stain upon dying.

The shovel was heavy in his hand.

Vexen shifted his weight, closing his eyes until he could finally look away from the place where his experiment had been, and pretend he had simply been lost in thought. His voice felt snappish, and empty. "Why don't you simply behave as you're told for now, and leave the understanding to us."

If it was mockery that furnished Axel's next response, Vexen did not know; the redhead lowered his gaze, spreading his arms wide in a bow. "I hear you loud and clear, _sir_," Axel announced, lips twisting in a humorless grin. "I'll work on doing just _that_."


	15. Chapter 15

Over the next few weeks, the relative peace in the castle managed to endure - or so Vexen assumed, since no conflicts bubbled down to intrude upon his work. The long nights were paying off. Thanks to hours spent in his research labs - food ferried in, used dishes out - he had finally been able to devote the concentration necessary in order to push through several morphological hurdles. The artificial Dusks that were produced were still crude, and he was seriously debating the use of memory duplication in order to force _some_ sort of structure upon them, but at least there were fewer ugly stains on the floor of his labs.

He counted that as an improvement.

Turning his attentions strictly onto transformation of pre-stable matter, Vexen managed to accomplish duplication of Glorp 1.0. The success brought with it several iterations that managed to maintain structural integrity for up to a week. Mobility improved to basic pseudopods, which now presented the second major stopping point: Vexen could not stabilize between three feet and twenty. The biggest problem was keeping them from sprouting out randomly without warning, torsos gaping wide to sprout nightmarish tendrils that groped blindly at the air.

Despite the difficulties, Vexen persisted. The possibility of artificial Dusks that could be modeled to his standards remained highly appealing; certainly it was better than merely _hoping_ that obedient Dusks would shape themselves magically to his whim. A reliable control was not only preferable - it was _necessary_, if the ranks of Dusks were ever to compare to that of the Heartless.

He twiddled a pen during one particularly frustrated afternoon, feeling possibilities creep out like stunted logic graphs, forking out into wild speculation before their inevitable collapse.

Zexion caught up with him while he was in the middle of amputating the limbs off one of the residential laboratory Dusks. Even though Vexen had sent numerous requests to the other researchers, none of them had chosen to donate any of their specialized Dusks to the labs. It was rapidly becoming more attractive an option for Vexen to lure Xemnas's attention through trickery and use man's whimsical interest to further laboratory schemes. Until then, Vexen had been forced to experiment on anything unlucky enough to pass by, and the results were not impressive.

He miscalculated the shape of the Dusk's shoulder joint; when he twisted the pliers with a grunt, a crack echoed in the room, and the Dusk writhed. Gritting his teeth, Vexen simply yanked free the rest of the limb and dropped it on the floor, lip curling at the black ooze that welled up from the point of severance, like a pudding that curdled on contact with the air.

He set the pliers aside, and glanced up to see Zexion standing on the other side of the table, observing calmly.

"Progress?"

Vexen nodded. "Progress." A spell capped the end of the Dusk's wound, stemming the fluids beneath a plug of ice. He checked to make certain the restraints would hold, and that the creature would not squirm away to die pitifully in a corner. It was a thorough procedure; by the time he finished, Zexion had already unpacked the contents of his courier's satchel, stacking several thick reports on the edge of the nearest clean table.

"I distilled several of the more useful expeditions into serviceable format," Zexion began. "Here is the data from several fringe worlds which possess similar technology to that of the Bastion. Here is another list of unfamiliar magical observations which may or may not overlap. And also," the man continued mildly, withdrawing a slim folder from his bag and laying it on the table, "here are the additional observations that you requested."

Vexen reached out and slid the folder closer with one finger. When it lay next to his hand, he flipped it open long enough to register the contents within, and then closed the cover with a flap.

"I appreciate your discretion in this," he stated briskly - but he was speaking to an empty room. Zexion had already gone.

* * *

It took less effort than he expected to corner Xemnas. Through some esoteric sorcery, the man had been coerced into actually performing work in his office, rather than gallivanting around unknown worlds while spouting dramatic nonsense. When Vexen pushed open the door after only a brief rap of announcement, the first thing that he noticed was Xemnas seated at a desk, sorting through the mountain of paperwork that had collected in his office over the weeks.

The gradual rearrangement of materials from the public libraries to private had found a new home in Xemnas's chambers. By-products of old research were everywhere. Vexen eyed a pile that was slouching by the door; rough sketches of constellations were scattered among rolled-up maps marked with Lexaeus's hand. Colored bands were wound on the ends of each scroll, allowing them to be easily identified should the maps be slid into a cubby for safekeeping. Cluttered together in an unorganized pile, they were simply a rainbowed mess.

He stepped forward, noting with dismay the lack of any available space in the room. "Let me guess," he called out gingerly. "You've discovered your true calling as a humble archivist."

Xemnas offered him a brief smirk before separating a stack of books into two piles, and dropping both sets inelegantly on the floor. "Zexion pointed out that the main library is no longer appropriate for us all to keep our research." His smile was rueful. "Then he mentioned that I should be the one to decide which materials should be kept for public access."

The belated practicality was amusing; Vexen had already relocated almost all of his own data to his personal laboratories. "I'm sure we'll all sleep better, knowing our theories are safe in your hands," he sneered. The sarcasm was bloodless; he let it die almost immediately. Sliding one of the folders out from underneath his arm, Vexen held it up like a peace offering. "Able to house any more?"

It might have been his imagination, but Xemnas looked briefly grateful. "I might be willing to spare the time."

It took the creative rearrangement of several files to clear enough space for Vexen to pull a chair closer to the desk - and empty that chair of three maps, two dictionaries, and a crate of inkwells whose contents giggled when they sloshed. Xemnas spared him the worst of what might have been an unbearably long diatribe. For once, the man was focused purely on business. They spoke quietly and efficiently. Vexen offered up the collected reports. Xemnas accepted the exchange, stacking each new fragment of data across his desk in fresh piles, arranged by type and relevance.

With each extra inch of papers, Vexen found his lungs tighten in his chest.

At last, he added the final folder: a thin, somber file that contained all the information on the machinations of the sorceress that Zexion had dared to collect.

"A Keyblade Master is fighting your Heartless," he announced, and then held his breath.

"Good," Xemnas shot back frostily. His hand, which had been reaching out to touch the folder, skirted away. "I hope he kills it. _Why_ do you keep track of that thing anyway?"

_Because it belongs to you, or at least to the man I once knew_, Vexen wanted to say. Instead, he only steeled his jaw. "As of Zexion's last projection, it appears as if the Keyblade Master and your Heartless have only crossed paths briefly so far. Should the conflict escalate to direct violence, it _is_ possible that the Keyblade Master may destroy your Heartless. The loss of such a resource is unforgivable." When Xemnas did not pick up the folder, Vexen added, "There is time if you still want to rescue it."

At first it appeared as if Xemnas would consider the suggestion. Then he shook his head. "It's too late to go back, Vexen. Ansem has been banished from the Garden - there is no Garden _left_. The Bastion is hollow. Even if I wanted to, even if I thought that Ansem would _listen_ to me, why would now be any different than the past?"

He moved on from there before Vexen could regain control over the conversation, shoving the folder aside in favor of a thicker stack of laboratory reports. During the next hour - ignoring all other attempts to steer him back towards the previous subject - Xemnas managed to review the list of project requirements with the determination of a man intent on avoidance. For a while, the conversation found itself at ease this way. Xemnas seemed willing to speak about Vexen's research without judgement, fielding ideas back and forth indiscriminately; they discussed the options of stealing technology and the dangers that might come attached.

Finally - seeing the minutes ticking by on one of the marker-labeled clocks - Vexen pushed himself reluctantly out of the chair and onto his feet, already thinking about putting several of their conclusions into use. It had been satisfying to discuss work again, just the two of them. He'd take a portal back down to the laboratories once he reached the hall, and have some Dusks bring by food. Then, with luck, he could sequester himself for another series of weeks while pretending no one else in the world existed.

His hand was on the latch of the door when Xemnas's words stopped him.

"He never said thank you."

The metal of the handle was cool on Vexen's skin; Xemnas was up on his feet, facing away from the desk and towards the rows of curtained windows. "All those hours I spent picking up the holes in his research, running experiments, looking for truth. I knew he wanted to find it. But he never accepted any of my suggestions. Despite all the claims that he wanted to help me find the answers to my past, once the door was finally in sight, he couldn't be bothered to reach for it." Xemnas paused, then shook his head. Vexen could not read the expression in profile. "Ansem the Wise. What a fool. He lost all rights to that name first."

Vexen regarded him from across the length of the room. If there was any appropriate response, any reaction that might have come from the _heart_, he could not remember it. "And you've done any better?"

At first he wondered if he had gone too far, answering in reflexive, tart wit - but Xemnas did not flinch. His grin, cross-lit by the colored streetlamps of the city, was a hideous caricature of humor. "Don't forget your part in this fiasco as well, Vexen. We're all guilty together."

* * *

All hopes that Xemnas might have settled into a position of responsibility were quickly extinguished. Next week, the man was absent; in the central library, where notations were being tacked up on a corkboard to alert when various members were coming or going, there was only a scrap of paper that stated Xemnas had left on a scouting tour. Vexen examined it, and then scoffed, turning away before he could let himself think about implications of what that might mean.

It might have meant something that Vexen was not even disappointed, in the rudimentary fashion he had learned since losing his actual heart. Instead of dwelling on it, however, he simply returned back to his work. Regardless if Xemnas verified the worth of his research - regardless if Xemnas even _remembered_ that he had set Vexen upon this task - Vexen had faith that _his_ experiments would hold a true key to their salvation.

He knew its value, even if no one else could.

One rare afternoon brought Vexen outdoors, into one of the open-aired gardens that Lexaeus and Demyx had managed to cultivate among the Castle's twisting innards. Several of the other Organization members had also chosen to spend time outside. Aerlen was playing some sort of game with Axel that involved razorbladed frisbees. Xigbar and Xaldin were on one of the upper balconies, discussing what looked like an entire _army_ of spears that were floating around the lancer's body. Zexion was spreading a series of folders out on the marbled terrace; Vexen hadn't decided if the complex spiral was coordinated by information, or sheer whimsy.

A few odd notes of music continued to detract from the day's serenity. Apparently the musician had decided to stay around, even after being shown how to use the portals, and thereby escape; whether Demyx figured that the chances would simply be worse without the Organization, Vexen did not know.

So far, his newest construct had been satisfactory. Glorp 5.12 had developed eight limbs in a stable arthropod model, and the interest in actively using them. Vexen had rigged a collar out of delicate ice-loops that had been woven in a cinch around 5.12's abdomen. Frost served as an excellent collar and leash. It had only required a few searing tugs to instruct 5.12 in proper behavior; despite any previous temptations to dash free into the garden, the Dusk now remained close to Vexen's chair, clambering in circles on the ground near its master.

Just as 5.12 had started to exhibit interest in a pebble, using two of its appendages to try and grasp the stone, Xemnas's voice broke the tranquil atmosphere.

"And _here_ are your newest partners, Luxord. I hope you'll enjoy them."

A reply as smug as living caramel seeped through the garden: "Of course. Assuming, naturally, that they're willing to be enjoyed."

Vexen dropped his feet off the stool, yanking Glorp back towards him with a sharp jerk of the leash. Frost crackled on his fingers, shedding in small flakes that melted like tears on the dirt; eight legs scrabbled, struggling against the frozen brand that had tightened around the Dusk's midsection. Vexen ignored the Dusk, ignored the newcomer's voice, and lifted his chin in search of the trouble he knew was the center of it all.

Xemnas came into sight along the lower walkway, strolling with a blond-haired man at his elbow, as carelessly natural as if he often introduced strangers to Nothingness. Vexen did not grant him a moment.

"I thought you were supposed to survey worlds for Heartless," he snapped, "not pick up _strays_."

"I did." After a beat, Xemnas admitted shamelessly, "I got sidetracked. Along the way, I found this particular individual at the top of one of the towers of a gambling palace - a casino, I think it was called. He was watching the Heartless ravage the city, but he didn't even _try_ to run away, or to fight. Interesting enough, wouldn't you think?"

"I know when the odds are impossible," the visitor cut in, weasel sleek and well-groomed. When Vexen turned his glare upon him, the man only smiled. "I'm a gambler at heart. I prefer to take what I can and go with the rest. You can't force Fate sometimes. If this is the hand I've been dealt, well - I'm sure I can turn it into aces."

The speech, Vexen decided, was not impressive. Neither was the flash of silver on the man's ears, or the dapper, arrogant grin. "So you're willing to ally yourself with complete strangers?" he threw back instead.

"Pragmaticism _is_ a marvelous trait for a betting man."

Vexen only rolled his eyes, ignoring the polished words with the same ease that he would use to dismiss any other sidewalk charlatan. Instead, he wheeled upon the true offender - who only blinked innocently, caught in the middle of stealing Zexion's coffee cup off the table. "_What_ is your _fascination_ with recruiting criminals, Xemnas?"

Behind them, the other researchers were already digging into the newest find. Xigbar had circled around, slinking off his perch on the upper balcony. Like twin hyenas, Aerlen and Axel had flanked from the side. Even Demyx's music had fallen silent.

Bits of conversation filtered past as Vexen attempted to stare an answer out of Xemnas, and Xemnas fished for a spoon.

Luxord's voice was no less merry for the scrutiny. "Accidents common here?"

"Unfortunate incident at breakfast. They only let me have spoons now." Xigbar prowled into view, looping around the small table, sliding through Vexen's peripherals. On his face, his eyepatch hung like a fresh blot of ink; he lifted a finger to stroke it with rudimentary affection. "And _you've_ got plenty of distinguishing marks yourself. Got enough metal on your head to attract a magnet instead of the other way around."

"I wear one for each loss." The stranger was unhesitating in his reply. "And I have only ever lost when the stakes were _extraordinarily_ high."

Xigbar pulled a skeptical brow, exaggerated and curious all at once. "And how high is that?"

"I'm here now, aren't I?"

Vexen finally gave up on Xemnas with a scowl, turning on his heel to watch the assembly. Lacking a chair, Xigbar had settled onto the air, reclining with deceptive ease as he studied the blond newcomer. Xaldin's spears had drifted into a slow flock of metal points that circulated above all their heads; Demyx had not left his corner of the garden, but he had lowered the neck of his sitar, cupping his hands with absent protectiveness over the instrument.

Aerlen shoved herself into a chair beside Vexen, and then stole his cup of tea.

Luxord - now gifted with a full audience - appeared to thrive upon the attention. He spread his arms with an extravagant flourish that ended with his knuckles splayed near his head. The earrings winked in the garden light. "There's a story to them, of course," he began cheerily. "The first of my great losses was to a fair maid when I was but a lad, still green and untried. She stole my love and escaped with it to the arms of another." Touching two fingers to his lips, the man blew an invisible kiss to the horizon. "The second, to the bar-runner who taught me my craft, when he made off with all the profits of our final joint venture, instead of the fifty percent which had been agreed upon. The third, to the man who sold me passage to the land where I found proper employment to tide me over. And the last - ah," he paused, fingering the crest of the Dusks upon his earlobe, "that was to your master."

Xigbar seemed to accept the story well enough, sitting back on the air. Xaldin, however, drifted closer, watching the scene from over the gunner's shoulder. "What about the other side?" he challenged. "There are four other losses on your right ear."

A twist of a smile. "I like symmetry."

With a rough laugh, Xigbar sprang off his perch and slapped the newest Nobody on the shoulder. "Good!" he proclaimed. "See that, Xaldin? Good sense of humor. He'll need that out here."

The standoff melted away with the same speed as a mist at noon; affecting disinterest, Xaldin began to forage at the tray that had been laid out on Vexen's table, fumbling with the biscuits. Xigbar yawned, stretching his arms in an exaggerated lean before checking which pitcher held coffee, and which held cream.

Luxord crooked an eyebrow at their sudden shift of attention, but his expression remained firmly bemused.

"So," he ventured, with rosy cheer, "I've answered a fair amount of your questions and managed to survive well enough this far. It's obvious that all of us here have been chosen somehow." He cleared his throat. "_What_ are we?"

It was Aerlen who fielded the question, crossing her legs and sipping her purloined tea. "Every person is composed of a heart and a body," she piped up, posture as composed as a lecturing professor - so practiced that Vexen found himself suspecting that the act was a deliberate mockery of himself. "The heart's what's on the surface. But the body is just a carrier. It's _forgotten_. People normally only see the heart, so most think that's all that matters." Setting down her cup with exaggerated precision, pinkies curled outwards, she nodded across the table at Luxord. "_You're_ just a body that got left behind. Without a heart, Nobodies can't be a part of either Light or Darkness. They can't connect with anything else until they get their heart back."

Luxord's mouth was turned down in the corners, studiously frowning - but rather than turn the question on the researchers, he kept his attention focused on Aerlen, with a concentration that was almost disconcerting for how different it had been from his previous frippery. "So without a heart, we're incomplete?"

"That's what they want you to believe." She rolled her eyes. "But I think it's just an excuse not to have friends."

Luxord stared at her for another moment before breaking out into a grin. "I think I like you, girl."

"Don't," Vexen advised, finally unable to retain silence. "She gets people in trouble."

The brief tension dissolved; Aerlen snorted inelegantly, and Luxord glanced towards the garden. "So," he ventured delicately, "is everyone here what you call a Nobody?"

Xaldin spoke into his coffee. "_She's_ not."

"_Thankfully_," Aerlen retorted, reaching for another cookie. "I just hear them spout on and on and _on_ about this stuff, all the time. I think when you lose your heart, you're required to lose your _mind_ with it."

Xigbar kicked her under the table. "Go play," he ordered brusquely. "Adults need talky-time now."

She stuck her tongue out at him with an exaggerated pout, but obeyed, humming as she fit tiny knives between her knuckles. When she finished girding one hand, she swept back her jacket along the zipper to reveal a pair of braces on her legs; the straps sat snugly on her thighs, implying far too much practice with sharp objects.

"Who gave her weapons?" Vexen asked finally, watching her withdraw two more knives from their sheathes, and then trot away.

Zexion turned another page in his notebook, speaking from the ground where he had remained throughout all the fuss. "Xaldin."

"That explains it."

"Pardon my interruption, but shall we get down to business, gentlemen?" Luxord leaned forward, one hand on the table. "I've gathered that we need a gameplan for this expedition, _and_ we're under limited time. Luckily enough," he grinned. "I'm fond of both."

* * *

Vexen left the newcomer behind, listening to the chatter of vice and introductions intermingling. The babble of voices fell away; hallways opened themselves before him with an ease that might have been disturbing, if he no longer found them anything but mundane. The miraculous had become ordinary. Only the unsolved dilemma of hearts was of any interest.

Xemnas must have felt similarly, for he had already abandoned his fledgling to the rest of the group, slipping away while Xaldin and Xigbar scrutinized the man and the junior members jockeyed for opportunities to look witty. His path was not difficult to trace. Even if Vexen had been blind to the hum of power seeping from the upper observatories - pulsing against his eardrums, tell-tale signs of incantations woven without proper safeguards - the number of Dusks which were clustered furtively in the stairwells would have given Xemnas away.

When he caught up to the man, Xemnas was surrounded by a bevy of his own personal Dusks. He was sorting through the star models that had been suspended from the observatory's ceiling, drawing patterns into his fingers and shaping them into orbs before tossing his creations carelessly away. His willowy attendants darted back and forth to catch the spheres before they hit the ground; their long capes flapped like the wings of frightened gulls.

Surrounded by only Xemnas and a handful of servants, Vexen tried his question again: "Why _him?_"

Thankfully, Xemnas did not seemed inclined to play dumb a second time. "Simple." With a shrug, he plucked another star cluster from the artificial heavens. "Like Saix, Luxord was brave enough to follow me."

The insinuation stung; Vexen did not bother to determine if it struck a sense of real pride or not before lashing back. "And I suppose _we_ account for nothing, then."

Xemnas gave him a thin smile. "_You_ didn't have a choice." He let a treacherous moment slip by, and then added, "Or did you?"

Vexen refused to be baited so easily. Lifting his chin, he resorted to stiff formality. "Luxord spoke of a bet that he lost to you. If I might inquire, what were the terms of the agreement?"

A shrug. "If he won, I would take him to a new world, where he would be safe from having his heart stolen."

"And if he lost?"

Xemnas leaned back against the watchrail, muscles relaxing as he toyed with the spheres, gestures becoming more and more lazy with each widening orbit. "Then he would serve me."

The stakes struck Vexen as absurd; he reviewed them twice just to make certain he had not missed some detail that would put everything into sense. "Xemnas," he hissed at last. "You have _no_ power to safeguard anyone's heart from Darkness. What would you have done if he had been the winner?"

Caught against the truth, the man relented. "Both possibilities would have led to the same exact result," he admitted, grudgingly. "After a person loses their heart once, there's nothing left to be taken. Nothing left means no risk. Whether he became a Nobody or a simple Heartless, he still would have been safe - and still in a position to be used in our plans."

_Disbelief_ would have been an appropriate reaction for Vexen to have; disbelief and revulsion, if he had emotions, but the memory more than sufficed. "Axel has been complaining about his role in this little Organization," he put forth instead, throwing the different tack out and wondering if it would be worth it to divert Xemnas's attention. "Do you feel he'll cause any difficulties?"

Rather than protest, Xemnas only shook his head. Stars rattled around the inside of the orb he was balancing on his fingers; a few of them broke free and began to drift. "Nothing so dramatic. His very presence points out that we can't afford to take much more time without showing some initiative. And he's right - we've been picking off what we can here and there, but we still lack a final solution to recovering hearts from Darkness." Colors winked. Xemnas gave the sphere a hard snap of his wrist, and the constellations began to whirl. "Perhaps my Heartless will find a way."

"Or it will die, and all hopes of your recovery with it."

"I'll find another way around that problem."

Vexen scowled; he thought about swapping the topic again, decided not to, and then ignored all sensibility. "I don't agree with these changes to the Organization, Xemnas. I don't like all these new people either. They have no history with us, no ties of honest loyalty. How do we know they'll obey _our_ interests?"

"I thought we went over this before, Vexen." Xemnas was off the railing now, his jacket rippling as he paced. "They'll obey because there _is_ no other option. They'll obey because they want to survive."

Vexen bit back a laugh; the excuse, once so solid, was now flimsy as smoke. "And what if there is another means of survival that isn't ours?"

Xemnas's eyes slipped half-closed. "Then I'll handle that possibility when it arrives."

* * *

He escaped the office before frustration got the better of him - less at Xemnas's blindness than at the utter lack of surprise he had anymore for the man's unpredictability. It had long been established that Xemnas's behavioral swings were dangerous; the chance that Vexen could fix the man was minimal, and somewhere along the way, he had stopped trying. Even studying the _memory_ of frustration lacked appeal. There simply was nothing left, but habit.

Zexion and Lexaeus had also pulled themselves away from the lure of the newcomer, and were conferring together in a corner of the halls. As Vexen's foot scuffed the carpet, both of them glanced up sharply - then, upon recognition of his identity, they relaxed once more.

Lexaeus offered a nod in Vexen's direction as he resumed speaking through the interruption, jacket rustling when he folded his arms. "After all, Zexion, the first thing I thought when I saw Luxord was that he was the Nobody of Ansem the Wise."

Zexion seemed torn between looking at the floor and at the walls, checking invisible patterns by running his gloved fingertips over the surfaces. It was restless behavior; restless, and with a purpose. "Xemnas hasn't realized yet what he's trying to rebuild here," he offered. "Saix's devotion, Luxord's appearance, even the _shape_ of what the warehouse has become - it's Radiant Garden all over again, recreated in miniature."

"And what _else_ does Radiant Garden lead to?" When Zexion did not reply, worrying a circle in the carpet with his hand, Lexaeus glanced down the hall. "Vexen?"

Rather than join the discussion, Vexen firmed his lips and stalked past them, leaving all the fruitless repetitions of the Organization behind.

By the time he extricated himself next from his labs - prodded by the growing stack of meeting notes indicating that he had somehow become delinquent by a standard that he hadn't been aware existed - the castle had completely changed. Over the weeks, it seemed that the building had taken on an impetus that was self-perpetrating. Wherever he looked, more and more of the specialized Dusks were swimming about on various errands, working with ant-like efficiency. Cluttered research rooms had been cleaned. Stairways no longer looped in unpredictable elevations.

Luxord's influence, he thought, watching a bevy of Dusks scramble together into ranks and trundle down the hall past him. The organization and arrangement of all their forces were being shuffled together and redealt like a gambler's pet deck of cards. The Organization had taken on newcomers before in the form of Saix and Axel, and even Demyx, but only now that the castle was half-full of strangers did things finally begin to show signs of change.

Some scale of influence had finally been tipped, sliding them all down into the unknown.

Haunting the shelves of the central library delivered him more tidbits of gossip. Xaldin's patrols had shifted almost entirely offworld. In his place, Saix had taken up systematic checks of the city - along with Axel, which surprised Vexen, since he assumed Saix alone might be groomed for that role. Luxord was around often, speaking with Zexion, and occasionally discussing music in the gardens with Demyx, who had been roped into doing more landscaping under Lexaeus's supervision.

Everything was different. It was Luxord's handwriting that Vexen saw next on the diagnostic reports of the test subjects that were trickling in - betting odds for how likely it was that one subject would create a strong Heartless or an equally powerful Nobody. It was Luxord's refinement of picking optimal locations out of the hundreds of worlds available. His tactics became a strategy for advancement, hand-in-hand with Zexion's starmaps and world diagnostics.

After one meeting which had been performed with methodical efficiency - wrapped up so deftly that it seemed stark in comparison to their previous, free-formed gatherings - Vexen found himself standing outside the hall with no real idea of what he was supposed to do with his time. He'd assumed the meeting would take at least two hours; Zexion and Luxord had everything wrapped up in one.

He paced in order to allow his mind to settle, choosing to walk rather than teleport straight back to his labs. His inspiration was becoming stale; the change in surroundings would help to jar it loose.

It was raining again in the City. The lower floors of the castle were thankfully spared of late, with canals being dug around the building like the crudest of moats, breaking through layers of tar and concrete.

One of the rooftop doors was ajar.

He stepped towards it, pushing it open the rest of the way. A wave of humidity rolled against his face; flecks of water bounced off the windows and bricks. He squinted outside, picking outlines from the sheeting rain.

In the mixing colors of the streetlights, Aerlen was holding out her hands to the sky. Between her fingers glittered upright knives - as if she hoped to either stab the clouds or start a war with the weather itself. The water plastered her hair to her skull, painting a tight layer of dirty gold against her scalp. Her guards were clustered like white umbrellas on the rooftops, snapping idly at the Heartless that were attracted to the girl's presence.

He did not venture out into the storm, shying away from the doorway as if there was an invisible line that defined safety from death. Droplets spat at his face and hands. "Zexion tells me you hate the rain!"

Aerlen did not react in shame to hear his voice. "So what if I do?" Her laugh was barked, a stacatto hiccup of sound. "I'll master the storm. I'll make it mine anyway." Turning up her head towards the clouds, she closed her eyes against the impact of the rain. "Someday, I'll turn the tables! Just you watch!" She was shouting louder now, jubilant. "Someday, I'll tame lightning!"

He closed the door on her, and went back to his labs in disgust.

She followed him in, trekking puddles on the tiles. Her hair resembled a skullcap; her jacket looked as if it had been soaked through, melting the leather into her skin. He threw her one of his lab coats, not bothering to watch as she peeled off her outer layers with a noise like sticky plastic.

Her boots clicked on the floor as she finished, strolling over to the nearest chair so that she could arrange her wet jacket to drip-dry. "You've been looking for recruits," she announced, matter-of-fact, "but no one's suggested my name. For scientists, you really are _fools_. All this searching for suitable candidates but I'm right here. I've lived in Nothingness long enough - I'm _basically_ one of you already! Why doesn't someone just pick me?"

"Aerlen," he said - once, twice, softly in order to get her attention. When she had quieted, he spoke again. "No one cares."

She stared at him for a long moment before breaking out into wild laughter. "Of course! This is a world of _Nobodies!_ Things that don't exist! I bet none of you even _remember_ how to feel to begin with - why should you even recognize it now?"

He scowled at her, swerving his chair towards the nearest clump of Dusks. "Go lock her up somewhere," he snapped, the order terse. He did not wait to see them seize her. The nearest book on the stack was from Ivalice; Vexen stared at recipes of outdated elixir simples, recipes that refused to knit themselves together into chemical sense.

Even after they dragged Aerlen away by force - not risking a portal and the potentially unstable darkness within - he could hear her laughing, wild and cruel.

* * *

In sleep, he found solace once more. The cushion of his pillows held nothing in the way of scientific breakthrough, but unconsciousness was a temporary measure that he welcomed as an ally and a friend. Sometime during one of his periods of extended research, the Dusks had redesigned the structure of his bedroom; rather than a cramped cubby with a mattress, a boxspring, a closet and a meager window, now he had been graced with extended living quarters. The most important contribution his Dusks had made was the large bed that had been set midway in an austere chamber, empty and waiting just for him.

However long he hoped for a reprieve, it wasn't long enough. When he opened his eyes again, starlight was trickling weakly through the curtains, the nearest timepiece showed that it was still hours before the Castle showed activity, and Aerlen was standing beside his bed.

He wondered if she was there for some sort of purpose, some sinister intent - but then she flopped down, her back to him, her face towards the window. Her hair was wet again. He wondered if she'd managed to escape into the storm, or if she rinsed her head in the sink simply to annoy him.

When he did not react to her presence, she curled up against him, snuffling into his arm: a sloppy, choking noise that he recognized as tears. Idly, he tried to remember if there was a glass nearby to store them in for later study. It was hard to collect a good supply from Dusks.

She hiccupped. "Sorry. I'm sorry."

His reply slipped out before he could continue to deliberately ignore her. "Why?"

"You - " She twisted around to face him, and hit his ribcage with the side of her fist, but it lacked force. "Don't you understand?"

He shifted on the mattress. "No."

At first he thought that Aerlen would strike again; then all her energy ebbed away, and left her mouth crooked in the starlight. "Yeah, I guess I'm used to that by now."

Her weight was warm against him when she nestled back down, burrowing so that her spine was nudged against his chest. She was taller than he expected; her hips fit nearly against his own. After a moment of breathing into her hair, smelling what he imagined was rain and was more likely laboratory cleaning fluids, he spoke.

"_You_ are an impetuous brat. You cause trouble with us all. The last thing we need is you thinking you're our equal. If you became a Nobody, would you even want us to treat you like Aerlen?" The train of logic jittered in his brain; half of him wanted only to return to sleep, and it was difficult to pay attention to his own words. "Pretending you're somebody you're not? To interact with a memory, instead of the reality? Better to become only a Heartless, Aerlen. The Nobody inside you won't want to be here."

She adjusted her position against him, pressing back so that her skull bumped against his chin. "Why would anything be different?" she lashed back, consonants thick from mucus and tears. "_You_ treat each other the same way that you did before you lost your hearts, right? You joke about the past. You're not _strangers_."

"That's - " Breaking off, Vexen took a deeper breath. "That's not the same. When you are taken by the Darkness, then you will _not_ be the same person anymore. You will lose your heart, perhaps even more of your memory. You will not feel, and when you lack feeling, you may behave in an entirely different manner." He let his voice ripen with scorn. "Or did you think you would be exactly the same, and we would welcome you with open arms?"

She made another sniffle, and then wiped her nose on his pillow. "You're all such idiots." The bitterness on her tongue was weary, but no less sincere. "Do you really think that memory is all that matters? Or even a heart? It's _where you end up_ that counts. Maybe if you all hadn't tried to be _nice_ to me, it wouldn't - "

When she didn't continue, he stirred. "Wouldn't _what?_"

Her throat birthed an inelegant moan. Then she choked it off. She no longer sounded as if she was crying; instead, she was fighting back to anger, crawling back towards a sense of jilted justice. "You don't care if I'm hurt. That's what you've always said. But then you do one thing, and say another. Then you do something _else_, and I can never make sense out of _any_ of you."

Sleep was now a myth on the horizon, escaping further and further away the longer that Aerlen talked. Vexen tightened his jaw. "No. You're correct. I don't care about you. You are interesting to research, and sometimes your excursions are entertaining - for a while. But your existence doesn't matter to me otherwise. Will that suffice?"

Her silence implied an answer; then she made a hard sniff, abbreviated with a cough. "So without a heart," she asked, dangerously, "it's impossible to make friends?"

"I believe so."

"That's ridiculous." She rolled over on her back, staring up at the ceiling. "Just look at Saix."

He scoffed, remembering the mindless invalid who had followed Xemnas around for days after his transformation. "I wouldn't call that friendship so much as devotion."

Aerlen's snarl would have been more dramatic if she hadn't hit the pillow with her fist at the same time, dulling the noise under a fluff of feathers. "That's the same thing! _Words!_ It's like you use them to defend yourselves from actually trying to care."

"It's not the Organization which believes Nobodies have no right to exist," he reminded her acidly. "Neither Light nor Darkness grant us a right to live at all. Compared to them, we have no emotions indeed - and we ourselves _know_ something is wrong because life is different than it was before. So even _if_ you succeed in proving or disproving anything with us, you can't change their minds - and _they're_ the ones who matter, Aerlen. Not my opinion, not yours, and certainly _not_ Xemnas's."

The last name surprised him, sprouting out of the list like a wild Truffle. Aerlen didn't seem to notice the irregularity. She struggled again through muffled degrees, hands twisting the sheets, shoulders jerking - and then subsided, breathing hard. When she spoke again, it was with some measure of self-depreciating humor. "I think that's the closest I've ever come to you telling me I'm right."

Anger made the room seem warmer. The lights from the hall crept underneath the doorframe, tranquil blues mingling with the shadows. Vexen gave up trying not to touch Aerlen, and let his arm drape itself over her side; it was better than suffering through pins and needles from an awkward cramp. "You should be glad you have not been selected for the Organization," he suggested, reasonably. "I wouldn't be half this tolerant towards your Nobody."

"Why not?"

"Because the only thing that keeps your arrogance in check is your fear. If you should you lose that, you would become insufferable."

Rather than drive her away, his words seemed to spur her temper further. She rolled back over with a shove and pushed him down, clambering on top of his stomach. In the dim light, it was hard to pick out the lines of her body - only flesh and weight draped upon him, lush in places he did not expect. He struggled to remember her as she had argued with him over the years: child, teenager, young adult, or whatever classification served. Human behaviors never were his forte. He could record them, could reproduce them with the aid of proper laboratory equipment, but he did not ever truly respect them as a specialty.

"If you want hearts so bad," she gritted out, her lip curling, "you can _have_ mine. But it's not my heart you want - it's my Dusk. It's not me you'd be friends with, it's _her_."

"It'd be no one," he reminded her calmly. "We don't experience friendship."

She snarled - a sound of honest rage, overwrought emotion following the structures of primal chemical and thought. Her determination was so fierce that it was mesmerizing. Fingers found his body through the sheets, strong from Xaldin's training, accurate from Xigbar's games; she wrestled until she was straddling him across the waist, pinning his wrists on either side of the pillow. When he took in a deep breath, he did so with a fistful of her hair in his mouth.

As he choked and tried to spit, Aerlen leaned down, tossing her head sharply; the flick of her bangs were twin bird wings rising, molten in the starlight.

"Sometimes I want to tear down this Organization around your ears," she hissed. "I want to rip you open until you acknowledge what's around you, that you've spent so much time denying because otherwise, you wouldn't have a neat little system of boxes that you can stuff everyone in. Heartless. Hearts. Nobodies - "

He twisted, grabbing her arms and gripping hard until her ranting broke off into a gasp. Bones and tendons shifted together; it felt for a surreal moment as if he could snap her without a thought, and discard her remains on the floor like any other failed experiment.

She fought back for only a second, vicious and exhausted. When her head drooped, he didn't let her go.

"You're _hurting_ me," she whispered, distorted enough to be a growl.

He tightened his grip, glaring back. "A shame the reverse isn't true."

* * *

The next time that Vexen was notified of a need to be social, it was to attend a group meeting called by Luxord in one of the inner cloisters of the castle. The gambler had picked a mockery of a room, white and hollow and featureless, like the inside of a marble grain silo. In an effort to provide furniture, someone had hauled out several massive chairs and lined them up along the ring of the wall opposite from the door; several of the senior members of the Organization were working over a chair that had been flipped on its side, and a spread of linen and screwdrivers was laid out on the floor like a reel of surgeon's tools.

Vexen stopped in the doorway. "What _is_ this business?"

Perched on the back of one of the thrones, Axel grinned down at him like a crazed vulture with teeth. "Looks like you haven't heard yet," he greeted. "How can we start infiltrating the worlds if we don't have a planning room to keep us all on track?"

"And you know this why?"

"Oh," Axel drawled, all false innocence, "it's amazing what happens when you keep your eyes open, and spend some time outside of the same little box each day. If you'd like," he added, with just enough finesse to keep from being openly insolent, "I could keep an eye on things for you too."

"That's not necessary," Vexen retorted back. He'd been called out in the middle of a delicate operation, and the smell of a particularly caustic vinegar clung to his fingers, distracting him incessantly. Every time he brought his fingers near his face to push his bangs away, or to rub at the headache beginning to form at his temples, the scent intruded. It was nagging enough that he kept checking, over and over, to see if the odor had dissipated - like rubbing at a bruise to see if it had faded yet, and being displeased each time.

"Okay, okay," Axel surrendered, rolling his wrists and settling back on his perch. "_You_ can stay locked up in this city. The rest of us will have fun getting out there and stretching our legs."

Vexen ignored the taunt. Back across the room, Demyx was engaged in attempting to assign chairs to individuals - an effort all in vain, despite the fact that each of the chairs seemed identical. Scribbled signs littered the seats. Xigbar and Xaldin were holding a quiet argument over one that had been turned over, torn away from the wall so that they could examine some sort of mechanism hidden the base of the chair. Xemnas was sitting near them, legs crossed, balancing a saucer on his palm as he blew steam off his teacup.

Demyx was scribbling names on notecards. "Zexion, Zexixion, Xemnex," he enunciated aloud, rolling the sounds liberally on his tongue, "there are _way_ too many x's here, guys! What's the fascination with that letter?" He threw his appeal in Xemnas's direction next. "Can't we just use normal names instead, hey?"

Pausing in his observations of the sugar bowl, Xemnas glanced up with wide, innocent eyes. "You know, I was _just_ thinking," he mused, "if we created an artificial heart and gave it to a suitable Nobody, wouldn't it override their personalities and essentially create a new one? At least, it might change their perspectives. I wonder if we should try that someday," he added mildly, and then dropped a cube of sugar in his tea.

"Okay." Demyx made a soft, coughing laugh, his expression wide open and waiting; then, when Xemnas did not shift his focus away, the musician blanched. "O-_kay_. So, um. How about better codenames, at least? How about numbers?" he tried next, flopping his wrists on the armrest and leaning forward. "We could go by seniority. Or, uh. Age?"

"Hey, that'd make me Number One," Xigbar announced proudly from his half of the room, puffing out his shoulders and crafting a gravity spell in a loose chain between his spread fingers, energy shimmering like a cat's-cradle string. He flicked the array towards the innards of the chair. "Everyone else, just arrange yourselves appropriately after me, thanks."

Gears whirred.

Xaldin reared back, snapping his head up as the ends of his hair swung dangerously near the open panel. "Numbers are a foolish idea," was his proclamation. "No."

"Wait," Xemnas broke in. "They _could_ be useful." He paused, and then smiled suddenly, a lopsided expression that hid itself as soon as Demyx turned around. "I won't turn down additional obfuscation. With all the different names we've been using to distinguish ourselves from our Others, what's another to add to the list?"

Unfortunately, the decision stuck. For a short while, the Dusks adapted the system clumsily, being corrected half a dozen times by various Organization members, along with Aerlen's interference. Most of the time, the errors were harmless. Vexen resigned himself to being called Master Three, Master Seven, and even once - Xigbar had something to do with it, Vexen was _positive_ - Master Gravitational Constant. All in all, the pretense was easy enough to overlook, until one Dusk came up to Xaldin at breakfast.

_Master Eight, Master Eight_, it whispered. All along the table, conversations stilled; Axel's fork made a slight tink against his plate._ The Snipers are requesting backup. Will you go, Master Eight?_

Xigbar promptly choked on his cup of coffee.

The next day, all the Dusks had resumed their normal forms of address.

Demyx did not stop there with his new methodology, though, shuffling around the numbers in an attempt to appease everyone's tastes. When Vexen joined the dinner table one evening, bewildered by the effort involved in finding an empty seat - an irregular occurrence for all of them to be at the table together, particularly when the table had been relocated to a larger dining hall, one that was more suited to a ballroom - the musician finally come up with a combination of age and seniority, with Xemnas leading at the front. Physical age trailed behind, and then the order of arrival dictated the rest. By the count of ages, Vexen should have been third, but being shunted to fourth was tolerable only so long as no one else got in the way - and arguing authority with Xemnas was not a matter that Vexen wanted to touch.

He listened as Demyx went around the table, proudly dispensing numbers off a stack of notecards. "And this," he announced as he set down the last card, "means you're number ten."

Luxord smiled at the figure staring up at him from beside his plate. "Ten, hmm? I like that. A lucky fate." He peeled back another inch of banana rind, letting the loose skin dangle over his knuckles. "Better than eleven, certainly, and after the last fiasco, I'd prefer it to eight. Meaning no offense, Axel," he added mildly, picking up a spoon and using it to scoop a chunk of fruit-flesh loose.

Axel grinned, all teeth and wit. "You going to keep playing with your fruit, or learn to eat it normally?"

"Normally?" Luxord twitched an eyebrow, looking as if he was fighting back a smile. "How vulgar. A gentleman always maintains decorum." And then, in direct contradiction to his words, the man leaned down and deftly took a piece between his teeth, eyes locked on Axel in challenge.

Axel looked away.

Another bite, this time with the spoon, and Luxord cleared his throat. "No," he began, grandly, "the reason why I prefer ten is because it _is_ lucky, or at least, if you're so inclined." After finishing one more inch of banana, he set the violated fruit upon his dish and fumbled in a pocket, eventually dispensing a pair of dice.

"On _my_ world," he continued, sweeping his gaze along the dining hall to make certain he had gained everyone's attention, "there was a rhyme that we used to predict each night's luck. If you didn't have your dice handy, then you used birds - crows were common, or magpies, any sort of dark-winged bird that wasn't commonly welcome at your grandmother's tea party." Ivory clattered; Luxord let the dice tumble off his palm and onto the tablecloth. He turned each over until a single dot showed on the top.

"'Two is for fresh luck, while three starts the play." Another turn of the dice. "Four means start running, five means you stay. Six earns you silver, seven earns gold. Eight for new allies, nine for the old. Ten wins good fortune, eleven risks all - but twelve wins the match and there,'" he concluded, with deep satisfaction, "'stops the ball.'"

At first the room was quiet, each individual matching their numbers to the appropriate meanings. Then, from down the table, a man's voice cut in:

"And what does one stand for?"

It was the first time that Luxord's smooth patter faltered. "Normally we leave the one out," he explained, almost apologetically, not looking in Xemnas's direction, "because on two dice, of course, you can never get that result. But - but, it does have a meaning. If you're interested."

"Tell me."

Luxord continued to shake his head. Then, suddenly, he smiled, looking embarrassed and indifferent all at once.

"Sorrow," he answered finally, lifting his head and making eye contact with the creature waiting five seats down at the head of the table. "One is for sorrow, because it's always alone."

At first Vexen held his breath, wondering if the words would trigger another one of Xemnas's rambling fits - but Xemnas only stared back impassively.

"Ah." The word was a click of breath. "I see. Thank you, Luxord."

The gathering dispersed from there without further discussion. Demyx had scribbled down his own portion of the rhyme on his notecard, and had started labeling the superstition on the other numbers; Vexen only narrowly saved his at the last moment, so that the looped scribble of _four means start_ was all that he had to be branded with. Taking the notecard with him seemed a better fate than leaving it to endure more chicanery. He and it could share an abbreviated fate.

He wandered with a vague intention of finding company. The duplication tests for Dusk-matter were proceeding nicely - version 10.1, another mark of progress - and until they had concluded, he was as likely to find anything of interest in his labs as if he'd asked a chair for conversation. As he walked, he glanced into open rooms: watching Dusks flit around the architecture, seeing Xigbar and Xaldin arguing over a complex gravity spell that was suspending five chairs in the air, and Demyx trying to demonstrate to Aerlen how to play two sitars at once.

In one of the quieter wings, the sight of a slim figure caught his attention, its head bowed over a collection of small, white blocks. There, Vexen paused.

Alone in a study, Zexion was working with a series of numbered cubes. Each had been divided into numerous smaller squares on each of their faces. He was sliding them around so that the ciphers for one to nine were aligned in order on each side, with the highest number in the lower right corner, and the least in the upper left. As Vexen approached, the man made a noise of satisfaction, and rotated the last number home.

Apparently the victory was not sufficient, for he then started to shift them around again, ordering them from nine to one in a pattern which Vexen had been convinced was technically impossible and pointed to evidence of cheating.

"Tell me, Zexion," he began, watching numbers align with disturbing ease together. "Do you remember - "

"Stop." The order came quickly. Zexion lifted one cube to eye-level and stared at it intently. "If this is another of your Dusk obsessions, I'm not in the mood, Vexen."

"Perhaps. Do you remember," the scientist continued anyway, refraining from another tiresome jibe about how Zexion was technically in no mood whatsoever, "back when we were children in the Garden, and we both were hungry during studying. We went down to the summer fields." Zexion was already grimacing; Vexen plowed ahead. "There was a basket of starfruit that had just been picked, lying underneath a worksman's bench. You and I were both hungry enough that we thought - "

"It was _watermelon_, not starfruit," Zexion cut in finally, rolling his eyes. "I remember it clearly, just like I remember the way _you_ denied anything about the incident to all the guards, Braig, _and_ Master Ansem."

"But you're willing to defend yourself now," Vexen threw back. "Even when it shouldn't matter - even _when_," he emphasized, "you shouldn't have a heart to compel you to do so."

"And?"

"And that's the problem." Eagerness to make his point left Vexen fumbling for a moment; he backtracked, searching for the dropped thread of logic so that he could grasp it once more. "Aerlen said once that nothing new started from us, without a heart. That we do not build new relationships, despite retaining the old. That a heart is not a question of emotion, but of _connection_. Listen. If it's possible for Darkness to exist within every heart - within every _Light_ - can it be that some parts of hearts remain within their empty shells? That what we have is more than what we think we do? That the nature of this search might be entirely different than what any of us expected?"

At that last question, Zexion finally paused in his manipulation of the toys, tilting his head like an inquisitive bird. "What are you suggesting, Vexen?"

"I think after all this time, we may not have learned anything at all."

Zexion made a muted hum in his throat; it sounded distinctly like skepticism. "The last man who claimed to have mastery over the heart was Ansem the Wise, and you saw how _that_ ended. It's beyond us now, Vexen. We have no choice but to keep going." Another rapid click, and Zexion rotated half of the cube entirely around, matching two sets of numbers together in parallel. "Ten Nobodies. Xehanort's Heartless aligned with sorceresses, taking over worlds. Keyblade Masters on the loose. We are not fighting this war correctly, Vexen - much as I predicted we would not. When this is all over, at least I'll have the satisfaction of saying, _I told you so_."

"And what else would you suggest?" Vexen parried back, settling into another set of familiar, repetitive banter, going around and around again, like rocks polished with the hopes of diamonds beneath. "Going back to the Bastion? Setting up labs to test the most basic elements again, all in hopes of redefining fire, water, air?"

But Zexion did not counter the debate. Instead, the younger researcher paused, a thoughtful expression crawling over his face.

"We're going through the same things, Vexen, set on eternal repeat," he murmured. "A stasis, uninterruptible. Continuing old habits and older words. How can we have a change of heart when we don't own one anymore?"

Vexen did not know if he was more surprised that Zexion had shown interest, or the conclusion that the other man had jumped to. "Then I suppose it's time to see what is strong enough to change on its own," he ventured, no longer certain which side he was arguing for anymore. "The will, or the heart."

"To what can change, then," Zexion remarked, and set the cube he was working on upon the table with a solid thump. He did not bother to pick a new one up. He did not even look at the toys again, opening a portal within two steps and then vanishing within it.

Caught without any response left to say, Vexen glanced down at the table. Somehow, over the course of their discussion, Zexion had managed to undo all the work that had been accomplished, unchaining numbers from one another, scattering sets across all six faces of each cube. The once-orderly numbers had been left in disarray. No matter which angle Vexen studied them from, the patterns were so esoteric that they were indecipherable - so complicated that they were little better than chaos. The only similarity any of them shared was that a single number had been left without repetition on any face, a single digit that never duplicated itself despite the million combinations possible.

Vexen reached out, and gingerly picked up the nearest puzzle cube.

"One for sorrow," he recited, turning it in his fingers to catch the light. "One for being alone."


	16. Chapter 16

The vines invaded the castle the next day.

Working their way through hallway and stone, they relentlessly twined around pillars, sneaking through archways and oozing along the stairwells. Thick around as Lexaeus's arms and strong as steel cables, they wormed their way through the gaps of the castle. Small tendrils coiled around books. Larger ones nudged aside furniture. Gradually they burrowed through the corridors, working steadily down all the way to the lower laboratories.

Vexen, safe within the surveillance half of a testing chamber, wrinkled his nose at the sight of them slinking underneath the doors.

"Lexaeus, Demyx, or both their fault," was his verdict. He turned back towards his observation of the incubation cylinders isolated in the other half of the room. "If you're expecting anything involving the projections on solar energy from the Pride Lands," he announced sharply to the guest lingering beside him, "then _don't_. I've no intentions of growing fur _or_ feathers to investigate that world firsthand. Besides, it's a waste of time. The sun has no observed magical qualities there, and the only advantage in establishing an outpost would be the terrain. We can find more appropriate sites elsewhere. I see no reason to spend any more time on that _dunghill_."

Luxord, standing poised with a pen, merely looked amused at the lecture. "If that's the case, why don't I see about filing the reports now, and tell Zexion that the matter's been closed?"

Expecting the same kind of quarrels that had come from the other new recruits, Vexen caught himself short. He narrowed his eyes at the gambler. "_You're_ suspiciously easy to work with. Did you lose your backbone along with your heart?"

At first he thought that Luxord would not answer. Then the blond pursed his lips and broke out into a dapper smile. "It's hard not to respect an operation which works on the scale of this one," he offered as a defense. "I suppose you could say that I've always understood the purpose of the status quo."

Even though the answer was satisfactory, the way it was delivered was altogether too smooth for Vexen's taste. Something about Luxord's phrasing refused to add up. A simple cardshark could have been expected to have particular ambitions, influenced by greed. Vexen's ideas of such a creature did not match the man sitting in front of him, who seemed more interested in obeying commands than in subverting them for personal profit.

"You're lying about being a criminal," he threw out suddenly. "Aren't you."

The accusation seemed to roll off Luxord's charm, leaving only a smile behind, polished like a stone by the sea. "What business my other half performed, I'm afraid you'll have to ask for yourself. But I'm no threat to you. Your Superior provided a most compelling argument for my allegiance - and I must say, he hasn't failed to deliver so far."

Remembering the nature of Xemnas's previous bargain, Vexen snorted. "Wait until you get to know him better, then." Another vine flexed experimentally against his boot, and he picked up the edge of his chair, only to slam irritably down on the offending tendril. It squirmed under the pressure, leaking clear, watery sap. Vexen scowled. "Just _what_ is going on here with these things?"

Luxord had already turned towards the door, lowering his clipboard. "Your Dusks are missing," he murmured. His voice had gone vague with curiosity, soft around the edges. "I'd ask mine for information, but they seem to be occupied as well. Are you having any problems contacting yours?"

Before Vexen could answer, a crash echoed down the hall, cracking and rattling in the dull impact of wood against stone.

Any temptation to ignore it was erased when a second crash soon followed.

Vexen hissed in annoyance, setting aside his notes and straightening his jacket as he strode for the exit. The vines had managed to pry open the doors a crack, swelling like mold, but they did nothing save twitch when Vexen set his boot in striking distance of them. It was hard to shove the door open against what felt like a mountain of sludge; when he halted his attempts and tried to concentrate on summoning his Dusks instead, none of them answered. Only when Luxord joined him and helped push did Vexen finally make headway. Inch by inch together, they levered their weight against the door, until the hinges groaned open, and Vexen could finally peer outside.

Wooden slats littered the carpet in the hall. The door to the upper stairwells had been ripped off its hinges, split into jagged sections. Roots were boiling across the wreckage, branching off into clusters that multiplied exponentially in size. Like burrowing worms, they quested blindly against the carpet. Several of the larger roots bore wide gashes along their length, and were writhing spasmodically on the floor, pushed aside by their healthier brethren.

Vexen frowned suspiciously at the damage as it spilled closer towards his feet. When he glanced back up again, Lexaeus was striding down the stairs, an axe in his hand, sweeping powerful strokes to clear his path. Demyx and Zexion trailed behind, picking their way over severed tendrils. All three looked disheveled: Demyx's jacket was only halfway zipped, Zexion was clutching several books under his arm, and Lexaeus still had his gardening gloves on.

"It's not anything _we've_ done," Zexion snapped before Vexen opened his mouth; that alone was incriminating, and Vexen leapt upon the opportunity.

"And where _else_ would living plants come from?" he pointed out. "Spontaneous _pollination_?"

"The attack began from a storeroom," Lexaeus grumbled. His expression was distinctly sour; judging from the level of debris that was caked on his boots and jacket, he looked as if he had waded through an ocean of organic goop without stopping. "Upon investigating, I found nothing more curious than boxes of knick-knacks from various worlds that had not yet been bartered for munny. However," he added, drawing to a halt in front of Vexen, "there was... more troubling evidence."

"The door was opened and intact." Zexion picked his way down the stairs, skirting around a puddle of sap. "None of the vines _we've_ seen have opened knobs, which means another type of creature must also have been in there. Additionally, there was the strong scent of Darkness in the storeroom, almost overwhelming. If I were to make a guess, I would say a portal had recently taken shape in that area."

Vexen did not keep his lip from a sneer. The holes in the information were unpleasant. Lack of his heart should have prevented any nervousness, but the memory was apparently still potent enough to affect him. "And? That's _all_ you could come up with?"

Zexion lifted one shoulder in a deceptively indifferent shrug. "Either one of us has turned into a rogue botanist, or it would seem that we have a visitor. Want to go find out which?"

The stairways were clogged with vines in various stages of dying. Several rooms were completely blocked off. Only Demyx suggested using a portal as a shortcut; Vexen shot him a quick glare, and the musician hushed. As tempting as it would be to bypass the mess, it would be impossible to study the state of the castle by skipping around haphazardly. Too, the chance that the Darkness would misbehave was a possibility that Vexen did not want to dwell upon. If a gateway had been opened, then the culprit might still be between worlds - either to attack directly, or by laying a second trap for the unwary to blunder into.

But nothing else seemed amiss. The lights in the castle did not dim or flicker as the five Nobodies traveled from level to level. None of the other Organization members were present in the halls; nor was there indication of any direct struggles, only what the vines had already inflicted on their own.

Just as Vexen had begun to wonder if the plants were simply another evolution of the castle, Lexaeus's hand settled on his shoulder. "There. Look."

Curious, Vexen glanced over. At first he could not understand what Lexaeus was attempting to emphasize out the window. The castle had acquired growth over a full third of its exterior, but the white bodies of Dusks were swarming to counteract the invasion, like pale ants or antibodies intent on fighting off an infection. Every type of Dusk seemed to have converged to fight. A bevy of Snipers danced around a protrusion of vines that were coiling up and lashing out like snakes. Near the base of one of the towers, Vexen's own Dusks were scurrying around a bulging wad of roots. Two Dragoons were holding back the worst of the tide from them, spears flickering in a metal dance.

Across the yard, clinging like black house sparrows to the crenellations of a tower, were three of the missing members of the Organization. Vexen glimpsed their faces in blurs, identifying them largely by their hair: Xigbar, Saix, and Axel. Saix had his greatblade out, digging the prongs into the roof tiles like a strut to keep from himself from slipping. Xigbar looked as if he had been struck by falling statuary; plaster dust speckled his coat like flour, smearing the streaks of grey in his hair into one thick mess. Strangely enough, the three were not watching the vines that crept up their tower, or were even preparing to fight. Rather, their attention was fixated on the maze of plant life swelling in the middle of the courtyard, the tendrils brewing irregular shadows beneath the castle lights.

Then a flicker of red energy split through the courtyard, twisting like a dying star. The man who gripped it in his hand wore a long coat whose hood was halfway down, unzipped and spewing out pale hair behind him. Darkness sputtered around the man's heels, licking at his boots like black hounds. At first it seemed that he was holding fire; then he turned his wrist, and the blade turned with him.

"Xemnas."

The word was out of Vexen's mouth before it could be suppressed. He might have pretended it was a warning. Behind Xemnas raced another monsterous vine; this one was tall as a clocktower, coiling upright to its full length before twisting to smash downwards. As Xemnas crouched on a balcony railing, catching his breath after a hasty dodge, another figure darted away from the mess. It ran along the length of the huge stalk without flinching at the dizzying heights: a man, or perhaps a woman, with broad shoulders and a slender waist. Its hair ran down long past its shoulders. Male, Vexen decided arbitrarily; male, because it did not have even the scrawny curves that Aerlen had begun to sport.

Vexen's hands were pushing open the latch before he stopped to think about the potential dangers of exposing himself to the environment. The air outside was cool with the onset of humidity, but nothing else. No poison singed his nostrils; no sickly pollen drifted through the air. The other researchers soon followed, shoving at the windows, one by one, to dangle out the frames as if they were all young again, students watching a recess brawl.

The challenger was lithe, dressed in a bright mish-mash of colors - like a festival piper or village trader, or one of the jugglers that would frequent the streets of the Bastion during harvest celebrations. Otherwise, Vexen thought, the man was unremarkable. Rose-tinted hair, normal amount of limbs, and in his hands, he bore a scythe.

A _scythe_.

"Is Xemnas fighting a _farmer?_" Vexen blurted, leaning over the window railing in disbelief. "A farmer _vigilante?_"

Beside him, Zexion hissed for silence.

Despite the occasional bursts of violence, neither of the men bore obvious signs of being wounded. Vexen did not know how much of it could actually be considered a battle; Xemnas looked as if he was spending most of his time evading, not bothering to defend as much as simply get out of the way. When his counterattacks came, they were performed lazily. He dodged the smaller tendrils that whipped at him, leaping from crook to crook of the stalks, avoiding his pursuer without obvious haste. The red sword in his hand burned firefly trails with each swing.

"He's _toying_ with him," Demyx marveled, and his voice was filled with awe so breathless, it might have been real.

Apart from broken syllables, the distance made it hard to hear what Xemnas and his attacker were shouting at each other. As the pair veered closer, bits and pieces of their argument began to keep their shape, ricocheting in echoes off the marble.

"The mana of your world is distorted," the stranger was yelling. For all his appearance, he did not sound like an uneducated country harvester, though Vexen was willing to make exceptions for the standards of different worlds. "A fitting wasteland for one such as yourself!"

As the man's voice rose, the vines clinging to the wall gathered together, weaving around each other to form a supple, braided rope. They reared into the sky, bearing the attacker aloft. The living missile arrowed towards the spire that Xemnas perched upon, with the stranger and the scythe as grim attachments.

At the last moment, Xemnas twisted aside, choosing to dive into thin air. He had grown in strength since they had all first arrived in the City; gravity spells wrapped deftly around his body and slowed his plummet into a smooth arc with no stuttering of power that might have indicated lack of control. His jacket billowed like a kite. The blade in his hand flickered hot with energy, singing afterspots on the night.

The vines writhed in a unified heave as Xemnas drifted too close to the boundaries of the courtyard, blocking off his potential escape, forcing him to veer and land on another spire.

"Are you sure you can't put down your weapon and discuss this with me like reasonable men?" he called out when his boots hit solid pavement.

The stranger skidded to a halt, crouching on the spire that Xemnas had just vacated. "Reasonable?" he spat. "Tell _that_ to your twin. _He_ summoned monsters by the hundreds. _He_ was not reasonable." Bracing himself against the stone, the man made an impatient crook with his fingers; in obedience, the vines burrowed closer, splitting the walls of the castle with green veins. "His creatures swarmed across the land and tore it apart. I battled through them to the center of the storm, but when I sought their master there, he could not even be bothered to fight. He bid his _pets_ drag me into the blackness instead."

The news caused Xemnas to pause, pivoting on a railing to strike a heel against marble. The conjured sword in his hand flickered. "So my Heartless was there in person at the termination of your world?" His voice was fading away again as he left Vexen's range; scowling, the scientist pushed away from the comfort of his window and picked another one further down. "He must have had a good reason to reveal himself directly. Though I hear hunger is an excellent motivating force. After all," Xemnas shouted, "a man _can_ show a distinct interest in his salad before consuming it. So - tell me, why aren't _you_ lost with the rest of your kind?"

Tossing his head, the stranger bristled at the challenge. "Your pet monster was not the first I have battled," he snapped. "When I first encountered him, I thought he would be easily vanquished. But he ended up destroying my world - and every world I went to, as I chased him through the void. What else could I do, but follow?" Metal rang as the stranger planted his foot against the nearest wall, and dragged the blunt edge of his scythe against the stone. "I went through the door he left behind, and then the door after that, and then the door after _that_. When there was no door, I found one, and when I could not find one, I _made_ one. So, if you please," he continued, bringing up the scythe, "I have come a very long way to kill someone. Please direct me to them, or else I will have to assume you _are_ them."

At the threat, Lexaeus leaned further out the window, but Zexion stuck out a hand. "Wait."

Xemnas had not reacted to the taunt. The man simply shrugged off the implications of what Vexen was beginning to strongly suspect was a new Nobody, from the piecemeal words that had been shared. "I've never seen you before in any of my travels. But I do know what you met. What you saw was not my brother. It was my heart, unleashed in Darkness and given form."

The drama of Xemnas's speech served one purpose: it made the assailant pause. He lowered his scythe warily into a guard posture, hands shifting to keep the haft of the tool slanted across his body. "So you admit to involvement in this?"

"As much as you might admit planning out a sneeze." Turning his own weapon so that the luminous point was aimed towards the ground, Xemnas's shoulders relaxed. If Vexen hadn't known better, he might have thought Xemnas was making an overture of truce. "Tell me, has your heart never once in your life acted without your control? Have you _never_ responded in anger without meaning to, or fallen prey to a weakness of sentiment? Never once had to keep your heart in check - and found it fighting, as if with a mind of its own?"

The stranger lowered its scythe a fraction yet again, and that was enough; Xemnas snapped his fingers and the air split open, spilling out pale, wriggling bodies of Dusks like a grubhole uncovered. They scurried to attack. The stranger was fast, quick to retreat, bringing up his weapon in a wide block that laid metal and wood between himself and his attackers. The effort gave him enough room to brace his elbows before they could get pinned, but he was left pressed with his back against the tower's wall, one shoulder bent against a windowsill. Exhaustion was catching up at last. Each time the Dusks swarmed closer, he had only enough opportunity for a parry, and never the range for the counterswing that might have granted him escape.

In the end, the stranger was forced to cross his scythe across his body and kick at the Dusks which writhed closer in a monochrome parody of the vines.

Vexen leaned out further, trying to catch a glimpse of what he hoped would be the man's last, futile efforts, but his view was interrupted by a flash of red light. Xemnas had twisted his blade towards the sky before extinguishing it, releasing the energy in a burst that left small spots behind on the inside of Vexen's eyelids. He blinked, trying to clear his vision as Xemnas prowled closer to his trapped prey.

"A freed heart wanders without a master, helplessly searching out of pure need," Xemnas began, no sense of urgency accompanying the words. "What I seek is a means of reclaiming those hearts - to make them subject to _us_ once more, rather than making us cheap puppets to their whims." Reaching the perimeter of the Dusks, Xemnas inclined his head. "Don't mistake me for an enemy," he suggested, chidingly. "You and I are in the same situation, and so we have the same goals. Your heart has also been released. Just think of what it might be doing out there, now that you're no longer there to stop it. Think of all the destruction it might cause - without you there to control it. Every secret desire laid bare, every whim. Don't you want that returned to you so you can protect it?"

The man flushed at the lecture, but managed not to glare. "Or so I could stop it."

"That too."

Forced onto a battleground entirely of words now, the stranger took gamely to the challenge. His voice kept its serenity even as he struggled to keep his scythe from being clung to by the Dusks, shaking the blade underneath their white mass. "And how do you plan on accomplishing such a feat?"

Xemnas's smile was beautific. "Are you interested in finding out?"

The stranger's lip pulled itself into a thing very close to a sneer. Vines sprouted suddenly from the wall behind him, shattering stone as they wove a fence between himself and the Dusks. They thrust the Dusks away in a heave that scattered the creatures like confetti, tumbling them like bleached feathers through the air that crackled when they collided together. The effort granted the stranger enough of a reprieve to claim dignity once more. He shrugged away from the wall as if he'd never been trapped, smoothing down the layers of his patchwork clothing with a cat's finicky grace.

"This power you seek," he began diffidently, "you plan to share it, of course? If so, I may be willing to listen."

Xemnas did not appear bothered by the show of skepticism. "Follow me, and you'll have a chance of finding out. Don't," he shrugged, tilting his hand towards the Dusks as they shuffled backwards, building ragged ranks, "and there's always the Darkness waiting for you."

The ultimatium stilled the stranger's methodical tidying of his clothing. He looked away then, so suddenly that Vexen found himself also glancing in the same direction, automatically wondering what the other man had seen. But there was nothing save empty sky there, patchy with erratic stars.

"It is said that every champion has a dark reflection," the stranger murmured towards the void, quietly enough that the words would have been consumed by the distance, if the entire courtyard had not gone utterly silent. "Perhaps it's time for mine. I've had stranger alliances before - and stranger victories. I'll share something with you, as a token of good faith between us," he offered suddenly, lifting his chin, and drawing in a sharp breath as he stared next at Xemnas. "Your... manifestation. He said something about seeking a kingdom's heart. Is this something which you currently possess?"

Xemnas's footsteps slowed, and then stopped.

When he turned his head, it seemed to take an eternity. "Is he still searching for that, even after gaining so much power?" The question came out puzzled, and almost managed to sound honest. His next question was addressed to empty air. "Why?"

"He's a Heartless, Xemnas." Rough-voiced, Xaldin slid down from the rooftop above Vexen's window, finally appearing on the scene as if he had been hiding there all along. A blotch of sap stuck two of his long braids together. Leaves papered the heels of his boots. "What else do they look for instinctively?"

"_Exactly_." The invecitive broke out of Xemnas's composure, shaking itself off like a dog. "I'm disappointed that he hasn't found it yet. After all, how hard could it _be_ for a Heartless to find Kingdom Hearts?" Rhetoric claimed Xemnas now, lending energy to his hands as he wove impatient rolls of his fingers through the air. "To find the place where they can exist. To the source of all hearts, where all return." He laughed then, lips parting, shaping words like reverent prayers. "If he's this incapable, perhaps we should finally step in. Kingdom Hearts has plenty of hearts in storage - old and new alike. Hearts we can master, control - ones which will _not _subvert us, but which can keep us from fading away. And now," he added, glancing towards the stranger with an expression that bordered dangerously on smug, "I believe we may finally have the resources to try."

With that, Xemnas stepped closer to the stranger in one reckless advance, holding out a hand that was empty of any weapon.

The stranger hesitated, and then clasped it.

In the hallway where Vexen and the other researchers had gathered, the vines began to slowly uncurl, withdrawing from the walls with moist smacks. They left their severed tendrils behind as they crawled away, back into wherever they had first sprouted from.

"Is that it?" Demyx protested, voicing the question on Vexen's own tongue. "Is it over?"

Lexaeus did not relax. His mouth was set into a deep frown as he considered the scene below. "I suppose Xemnas has decided to take someone else in," he muttered slowly, pushing away from the windowsill with a creak of his leather boots. "The least we can do is go and meet them."

* * *

Drowned out by the number of excessive introductions, Vexen found it a simple matter to escape from the crowd. He did not bother extending a greeting of his own, slipping past Xaldin and Demyx, ducking around Lexaeus, ignoring Saix's quizzical look and removing himself entirely from the room.

In his labs, the papers seemed to be in eternal disarray, refusing to remain organized with a stubbornness that could only be explained by a perpetual entropy field. To better tackle them, Vexen ordered the Dusks to bring meals down by default, abandoning the use of the communal dining room. After a few days, invitations from the other researchers came trickling in: first curious in tone, then stern, and then dismissive before they stopped altogether. He didn't miss them.

Work eventually set its own limits. Physical weariness crept into Vexen's bones and then stayed, refusing to be banished by scattered handfuls of sleep. Vexen lost ground constantly to it. One afternoon, he woke up and was still in his lab, his hand wrapped around the calipers he'd intended to use to measure the limbs of the latest batch of Dusks. The metal had left deep impressions in his skin; he'd taken the calipers away and watched the reversed numbers on his fingers eventually fade, so gradually that he wondered if they would be left there forever.

He was in the middle of debating if he was going blind or simply being blurry-eyed from not enough rest when a portal opened in his ceiling, and dropped Xigbar through headfirst.

Rather than tumbling properly to the ground, Xigbar caught himself on his hands and brought his feet down slowly afterwards, straightening up with all the insolence of a crazed acrobat who had just been demonstrating the most inefficient means of performing a handspring. "You haven't been around to say hello to the new guy yet, Vexen," he observed, as he finished orienting himself to the proper vertical. "Not your type?"

"Yes, well." Vexen did not try to conceal his squint; if it made him look doubtful, then all the better to conceal his fuzzy vision. "We acquire a new and _highly_ suspicious Nobody - under more and more implausible circumstances - who almost instantly is recruited to join our many escapades, and is _also_ treated as an equal despite his inadequacies. We've _doubled_ in _size_," he drawled, letting each word drip with mockery. "You'd think I'd _know_ the _routine_ by now."

Xigbar took a deep breath; then he flipped his ponytail back over his shoulder with a thumb. "You're right," he confessed, and Vexen was startled by the admission. "It doesn't make sense. Lots of things don't anymore." Scuffing the floor, the gunner broke into a prowl across the tidy lines that identified blast radii around each worktable, each finicky step exaggerated as a cat in snow. "I don't like this new guy. Mar_lux_ia. What kind of a name is _that_?"

"You're incapable of liking _anything_ right now," Vexen reminded him tartly. "Haven't you kept up on current events?"

But the needling did nothing to defuse Xigbar's tension. The spice of gunpowder seeped around him like an aura. He brushed past a tray of experiments with a carelessness that left vials rattling in their slots after he bumped against the table's edge. "Have you noticed how Xemnas has been changing?" His voice was tight around its own syllables. "Ever since we gained the new recruits, something's been wrong."

"You're incapable of paranoia, too." Giving a sharp sniff, Vexen twisted his chair around to face the gunner, letting the wooden legs scrape arrythmically against the ground. "Did you only come here to warn me that this Marluxia could be a dangerous influence? Because if so," he pointed out harshly, "maybe you should have started back with Axel. Or - why stop _there_ - didn't I protest the use of Saix when _that_ whole idiocy was suggested? I hope someone's been taking _notes_."

Xigbar rolled his eyes. "If anyone's gonna say, 'I told you so,'" he smirked, swerving on his heel as Darkness coiled around his feet, "it'll be Lexaeus."

Then he was gone, slipping through the Darkness and leaving nothing but the lingering odor of spent gunpowder behind.

Taken back by the comment, Vexen frowned. Logically, he had expected that there would be some favorable connection between a man who worked with earth, and a man who appeared to control plants. Yet as he tried to remember the meeting, Vexen realized that Lexaeus, too, had seemed inclined to getting away from Marluxia's presence. Lexaeus had always been one of the more tolerant of the scientists. Any sign of disapproval from him could not be taken lightly.

It took a while before Vexen reached a halfway decent stopping point in his work, shoving the notebooks aside roughly on his desk. They slid against another set of journals: reference material he'd asked the Dusks to bring out of storage so that he could compare early research of the City with current times. He'd meant to get to them next, but finding Lexaeus was suddenly higher on the priority list. The central garden would be the first place to start, Vexen decided. The entire errand would be short, and then he'd be back to his studies.

But there was a different man working in the garden when Vexen arrived. His jacket was long, and did not strain across the shoulders as Lexaeus's did. His hair was rich in color, but not tinted ruddy brown. As Vexen watched, Marluxia knelt on the freshly-turned dirt, looking down towards the tiny seedlings with an expression that greatly resembled satisfaction.

Vexen left before he was noticed.

One garden and then another was checked, with little success. Eventually, with the help of a Dusk, Vexen found Lexaeus tucked away in a rear wing of the castle, in an overlarge storage room that had been converted into a training center. Weights and tables had been hauled down to serve as devices to practice with - and not simply for Lexaeus either, for several ranged targets leaned against one wall, liberally decorated with punctures.

Lexaeus had been at it for some time already; sweat had beaded on his skin, turning his shirt grey against his body. He had discarded the uniform of the Organization in favor of more practical clothes for a workout: a loose pair of drawstring pants, and a workman's shirt whose sleeves and collar had been cut away into smooth scallops around his muscles. Leather was not in favor for prolonged exertion, it seemed.

Vexen picked his way down the stairs and around a rack of weights. "I couldn't find you _anywhere_," he lashed out as a means of announcing his presence, choosing blame as a proper hello. Then he dispensed entirely with subtlety. "Why aren't you out mucking about with dirt like you usually do? I'm sure there's more than enough by now to go around."

Metal clicked as Lexaeus continued to move the weights back and forth. "Haven't been in the gardens for a while," the man grunted. "Not since Marluxia decided he also wanted a pet project."

"You didn't want to join him?"

"No."

It was a while before the awkward silence was broken again, save for the small clinks of metal as exertion wore on Lexaeus's stamina, and made each repetition sloppy. When Lexaeus next spoke, his lungs were taut with strain.

"I don't like Marluxia."

Vexen, who had been struggling with the excuses available to leave, leapt upon the distraction. "What is it this time?"

"He's strange. He's - " Breaking off, Lexaeus rested the barbell back in its cradle and exhaled, lying flat against the machine. "He... looks like a _woman_."

"So does Xemnas," Vexen snapped. "I'm sure they have _fascinating_ conversations together."

"That they have." Lexaeus's intonation was cold. "Ever since arriving, Marluxia hasn't left his side. Considering the way his heart was taken, I'm surprised he hasn't tried to kill Xemnas yet, simply on principle."

Surprised by the gloomy prediction, Vexen straightened up against the weight rack. The edge of a barbell nosed against his shoulderblade; he ignored it. "If Marluxia tries, then we'll just have to look for another Nobody to replace him. Since we suddenly seem to be overflowing with applicants," Vexen added acerbically, "I suppose one will show up readily enough."

Lexaeus snorted. Reaching underneath the bench, he yanked a towel from where it had been folded between his boots, and began to mop at the sweat that had beaded on his neck. "There's something that's been bothering me ever since yesterday's breakfast. I guess Marluxia must have heard what the Dusks are calling me - the Silence of Heroes or some nonsense like that. He told me there were differences between champions and heroes. He said, of all people, I would know what they were."

Vexen frowned. "Do you?"

"No."

* * *

When Zexion pushed through the doors to his laboratories, Vexen didn't even blink. "Let me guess. Marluxia?"

Zexion paused in midstep. "Actually, I was going to ask if you'd seen my compass."

Vexen scowled.

Without bothering to ask, Zexion seated himself on the nearest chair, nudging it away from the table with his knee. Projects must have taken the younger man recently off-world, because whenever Zexion moved, the scent of clover and honey rose from him like a summer orchard. It was a distracting odor, among the sterility and sour chemicals of the labs. It smelled of life, and everything that had yet to be taken by Shadow.

Even as Vexen did his best to try and pretend he was still alone, Zexion proceeded to unpack. First he unwadded a group of multicolored handkerchiefs from one pocket. From the other, he spilled out a handful of assorted munny onto the table. Though the Organization's finances had long been stable, the currencies of the worlds remained a point of fascination for the younger researcher; by now, it was habit for Zexion to come back from any trip with his jacket full of souvenirs.

Vexen knew better than to speak up against it. The worlds were never-ending puzzles in that regard, and so would always attract Zexion's curiosity. While each city accepted a certain amount of trade, they did so in their own currency, exchanging coins for the worth of the base metal, or attributing a blind value. After a while, all the munny had begun to look the same in a great, multi-colored collage, earmarked and flagged with different conversion notes, growing more and more familiar with their neighbors without realizing it. Vexen found it ironic. The closer a world was to being consumed, the thinner its borders. The more closely it was connected, the nearer it was to being lost.

Out of the disarray that Zexion was unearthing from his pockets, Vexen could identify a few types: the smaller denominations of gil coins, the larger bills of gald, the triangular cards of Wonderland that could be set together to match up patterns of lacework on the sides. Each piece was marked on the corners with the exchange rates they had most recently passed through. Vexen never understood if it had been an effect of the Darkness - or other magic - that had them all recognized as valuable; much like the bizarre transformations of language between worlds, it had to be magic. No universe would allow everyone to speak exactly the same dialect and ignore strange guests popping through. The Darkness had its gifts.

After setting aside a jumble of ha'pennies, Zexion settled on stacking up thick silver coins, unwrapping them from a stained linen shroud. "It was fine before," he began abruptly, his fingers deftly sorting the coins into piles. "Even though he wasn't entirely stable, he was still someone who recognized us. Do you remember what happened to the first Xehanort?" Without waiting for Vexen to ask, Zexion changed tactics. "When the experiments began to transform from theory to application? We haven't done anything to keep it from happening again, have we? What if he goes mad a second time, believing that he's a creature known as Xemnas rather than a man named Xehanort who lost something along the way? What will he really want to achieve _then_?"

Distracted by the march of coins, Vexen narrowed his eyes. "Then what _is_ he now, if not Xemnas?" he countered, finding himself on the side against Zexion's atypical protest. It was an uncomfortable reversal. "_Words_," he emphasized. "The name he chose may have become something more, just like Xehanort claimed ownership of _Ansem_. But one name is as easy to change as another. Alive, dead, Light, Darkness. The longer we stay like this, the longer I think reality itself is only a convenience. What _if_ he does destroy us again on his pursuit for power? Don't you think we've _had_ sufficient time to protest?"

"Maybe death is just a word," Zexion countered. "After what we've been through, I don't know if we'll even fully die. Perhaps some part of us will only wake up again somewhere, in a different world with different faces. Perhaps we'll take even stranger names. Maybe we'll be reborn." Zexion's hand turned its palm over the munny, encompassing half a dozen worlds in representation. "But we'll never _know_. These lives are all we have now. Maybe we're as helpless as our hearts, waiting until we're returned to the Darkness."

"Now you're sounding like Lexaeus." Scoffing was an easy noise for Vexen to reproduce, emotion or not. "Giving up before we've even begun. Don't tell me you've stopped looking for opportunities to still win, Zexion."

Silence held the room; then Zexion withdrew his hands, gathering them together below the lip of the table. "It's happening again," he warned Vexen softly. His eyes were shadowed by his hair, staring back at Vexen from behind the framework of his bangs. "Just watch. Thanks to Marluxia's help, _this_ Xehanort is becoming drawn into his new goal, just as much as the one that lived in the Bastion. And we all know how _that_ turned out."

"And what do you propose to do about it?" Vexen snapped. "Dispose of Marluxia while Xemnas's back is turned?"

Zexion only shook his head. "We have few enough Nobodies who are powerful enough to retain human shape. It would be distasteful to war against those who should be united with us under a common flag." Gathering up the munny suddenly with wide sweeps of his hands, Zexion let the piles of silver drop back into their stained linen shroud. "Let's hope that if Marluxia is planning treachery, he'll see the wisdom in turning his efforts against the Light instead."

The conclusion was empty. Vexen narrowed his eyes. "Let's _hope_," he parroted back nastily, feeling his voice weighed down by all the tired arguments of the past. "As if hope is at all possible for us anymore."

* * *

When the second phase of his Dusk work was complete, Vexen allowed himself to celebrate by continuing to put off organization of his labs. The Dusks had been thorough in gathering the old data out of storage that he'd requested, but the result was a pile of mismatched journals that sat ominously on one corner of his desk, spreading out in a mess that caved in the middle like a deflated pancake. He thought about having the Dusks do the rest of the sorting, separating important information from useless trivia, but relying on their wits wasn't an option he found satisfactory. Too often, he discovered that they would keep anything that looked halfway important, even if it'd been a list for lunch that simply had been written in red pen instead of black.

But his research was progressing steadily forward. The skeletal models had been stable enough to advance to another evolutionary stage, this time mimicking complex insects. Humanoids were more complicated, despite the luxury of fewer limbs to coordinate; their sense of balance was so delicate as to be atrocious. The work occupied much of his time. He allowed it to claim his life, until eventually he took breaks only to sleep, waking up to return to the same task.

Despite his best efforts to ignore the outside world, however, gossip about the newcomer seeped down. Usually it arrived because one researcher or another would flee to the labs, and proceed to waste Vexen's valuable time with complaints. Vexen had tried clearing his throat; he'd looked away pointedly, and had even turned his back on Xigbar once as if the gunner was not even there, but his very silence only encouraged each of the other researchers to visit him whenever they found a problem with their newest companion.

From Zexion, Vexen learned that what enchanted Xemnas most was that Marluxia had the organic touch that would help fill out the rest of the city. It seemed that vines were not the sole trick that Marluxia could perform. His influence encouraged plants of all types to bloom. Small weeds took root in the cracks of the streets, digging their roots into the asphalt, burrowing and undermining the city's structure. Empty windowboxes turned lush and heavy with growth.

From Xigbar, Vexen learned the cause of Lexaeus's disaste: the redhead had never been able to get the plants to grow so easily. As students in the Garden, it had been the touch of the organic which Elaeus had fought so hard to cultivate, and had inevitably lost along with his heart when he became Lexaeus. Skill with shaping earth had not translated fully into the things that lived upon it.

From Xaldin, Vexen heard first that the cycle of biological decay had finally taken on impetus of its own. A neglected plate of food did more than simply grow stale - now it began to rot, attracting mold and decomposition. Bacteria had finally moved in on the heels of the foliage. All the lower tiers of an ecosystem were crawling into place.

_Insects and people_, Vexen reminded himself in annoyance when he discovered that his leftover dinner had attracted a pair of fruit flies. Insects and people were both part of the cycle of life. He thought briefly of the sterile garbage cans that they had first encountered in the City, and then resolved not to check to see if they remained clean.

It was a bout of spring-like weather that brought Vexen up for air, escaping the labs in order to keep from being assaulted yet again by members of the Organization who didn't know how important he was. A field trip was an adequate excuse; Vexen brought his latest Glorp specimen up to hunt the butterflies in the gardens, taking satisfaction out of watching the creature wiggle and pounce. The exercise had less appeal than it should. Without any other guideline to measure his progress against save his own satisfaction, Vexen found that each milestone seemed less and less important. There were few people to show off his success to - even fewer who would understand its scope enough to appreciate it.

The gardens seemed emptier since Lexaeus had abandoned them, even though the plants were all in full, eternal bloom. The life in them survived, but that which had first motivated the garden to take shape was gone. Still, the walkways were clean and free of debris, and Vexen coaxed his specimen down them, watching its ungainly waddle.

He was, unfortunately, not alone.

At the far end of the garden was a narrow row of saplings. Dirt mounds sat like crumpled brown headstones, waiting around smaller pits the size of a person's skull. Marluxia was kneeling in the middle of them, ignoring the smears of dirt that were applying themselves to his jacket. Aerlen crouched beside him, her bangs pinned back by fat, copper barrettes.

The two seemed engrossed in discussion. Aerlen's face was upturned towards Marluxia; the man smiled as he spoke. "You've seen what happens when the earth is not rooted by trees," he was lecturing smoothly, waving his hand over a row of seedling trays. "The landslides that occur when soil is too heavy with mud during the rain... how, without the support of plants, even the strongest earth will crumble away... "

Seeing the combination of the two bothered Vexen suddenly; until seeing her in the garden, he hadn't realized that his labs had been missing the girl's presence. Similar to her fascination with Axel, Aerlen had been drawn to the latest newcomer, and away from Vexen's rooms. Unlike her time with Axel, Aerlen had not returned to Vexen with the intent of causing trouble. Whatever Marluxia was whispering to her now was making her thoughtful, encouraging her to hold her tongue and ask questions back, listening with an attention that was strangely familiar.

Vexen did not know why. Then, when Aerlen reached out and pushed at Marluxia's shoulder, and Marluxia only laughed instead of shoving her away, Vexen understood. In Aerlen's gesture was the same aggressive _need_ to be responded to that Vexen had always refused, the demand to be acknowledged that had driven her back to Vexen's door time and time again.

He'd ignored her. He'd always tried to ignore her. Marluxia - it seemed - didn't.

Aerlen's bright laughter echoed through the garden, mixing with the ripple of Marluxia's voice. Vexen snapped his head in their direction, and then jerked it away again. He considered the value of allowing Aerlen to consort so freely with the man, and then dismissed it. So long as she was occupied, she should be no concern of his.

* * *

Xigbar tapped the sheet. "I like this one."

"Oh _yeah_," Axel quipped. "_Definitely_ like the lines on her."

The gunner tossed the folder lazily back towards the table, letting it glide to its rest like a trophy in the middle of the breakfast plates. "Looks like she'll be my pick, then."

"Not a chance! I saw her first."

"Want to bet?"

"Want to try?"

"You're fighting," Xemnas broke in from down the table, "like little kids. My prediction is that she won't make it through the transition, no matter _who_ tries to recruit her. Her spirit is too weak."

"We have _Demyx_," Axel protested.

"Thank you, I'm sitting right here," interjected the musician from near the end of the table.

With the chairs of the meeting room out of commission that day - something had gone wrong with the inner machinery, causing them to rise and fall at erratic intervals - the Dusks had ferried in replacement seats from every room imaginable. Vexen had been quick enough to bid his own Dusks to fetch a stool up from the laboratories, but the rest of the Organization had been left to fend for their own, perching on whatever surface was available. Axel and Demyx had dragged in the breakfast table, along with two chairs from the dining set. Xigbar, unsurprisingly, had chosen the wall.

Over the course of the morning, the conversation had continued to shift. Zexion might have brought out the data folders with the intention of having the assignments distributed equally, but the game of picking and choosing potential recruits had quickly derailed any efficiency. As the dossiers continued to be passed around, offered carelessly from hand to hand, talk progressed to the nature of why so many had failed in their transition. Even though the researchers had largely abandoned the effort of figuring out why the rate seemed impossible to predict, the newer Nobodies seemed enthralled by the argument.

Luxord was the next to take up the fight. "It's not a case of just wanting to survive," he suggested cheerfully. "If it was just that, we'd have human Dusks everywhere. It's wanting to survive no matter _what_ happens - no matter who you become. If you've got have the strength to look in the mirror afterwards, and acknowledge it as yourself, _then_ you might survive." He took a scone off the table, shedding a torrent of crumbs. "And _that's_ my two pounds on the matter."

Vexen snorted, but handed over the butter. "That's surprisingly bright of you. If only the rest of the table had similar wit."

"But if it was a matter of surviving even at the cost of identity," Xemnas chimed in, baited by the fresh round of rhetoric, "how is it that _identity _is all we are?"

"Adjourned!" Xigbar laughed after his own sudden outburst, and leaped forward to snatch a stack of folders back off the table. "_You_ all can stick around talking your brains out, but _I_ have a date with a sultry brunette."

As they were all leaving, Vexen glanced back. Xemnas had not yet left the table, watching the rest of them depart with no sign of doing the same. The smile on the man's face was a chilling thing: small, crooked, and utterly indifferent to the status of other living beings.

They exited in ragged clumps, the Darkness opening to take some immediately, while others chose to leave formally through the arched doorway before conjuring a portal. As the brief sparks of power flared, Vexen wondered why they even kept hallways in the Castle anymore; there was no need to waste space on connecting rooms, if no one bothered to use doors for anything other than dramatic effect.

Outside the meeting chamber, Saix slouched against a railing. The stars overhead were bright enough to cast sharp silhouettes against the marble. It was a clear afternoon. Under other circumstances, Vexen might have called it pleasant; there were few clouds, and no signs of rain.

His footsteps took him near enough to see the frown pulling at the line of Saix's mouth. "You don't seem as content with things as one would imagine," he couldn't resist baiting. "What happened to _your_ blind fanaticism?"

At first, it seemed that Saix would ignore him. Then the junior Nobody shifted his weight against the rail. "There has been a matter which does not seem quite right," he offered. "Perhaps it will change once we finally reclaim our hearts."

Coming up beside the berserker, Vexen looked down over the architecture below. The Castle seemed peaceful. The twists and turns of the stairwells were cluttered with the occasional Dusk, but otherwise everything appeared stable. "And here I thought you didn't want your heart in the first place."

The berserker looked unperturbed. "I was unable to control it, and so it controlled me. Lacking it has taught me a great deal. Next time, I'll be able to handle it properly. And if not," he continued confidently, "we'll simply get replacements."

"You have... very _strange_ notions of the Darkness," Vexen replied, shaking his head, perplexed. "Do you really believe everything Xemnas claims?"

By now, Saix's expression had lost all traces of its displeasure, smoothing back into the serene insanity of trust. "Don't you?"

"Did it ever occur to you that he might have lied?"

"He couldn't have," Saix answered promptly. "What else would you all be searching for? Except for _him_," the berserker added, turning his head to regard Marluxia coolly as the man exited the meeting chamber at last, strolling towards the gardens without a backwards look. "_He's_ different. Consider it a hunch. A warning, from my distant heart-to-be."

"Is this another one of your divination tricks?" Vexen snapped, but Saix refused to be incited further to speak; the berserker seized the railing with a gloved hand and pushed himself away from it, prowling down the hall with muted thumps of his bootheels on the carpet.

* * *

It was with this conversation in mind that Vexen finally decided to seek out Marluxia directly.

He did not bother looking for the man inside the regular rooms of the Castle, beginning the search instead with the highest garden in the Castle, and working his way down from there. There was still no sun in the sky, but the air was warmer than he remembered in the previous weeks. They'd passed successfully into summertime, he guessed, or what resembled it.

As Vexen walked, a slight breeze toyed with the ends of his bangs, throwing them in front of his vision in an unruly tumble. It distracted his mind over and over, even as he tried to calm it; the disruption of the air only seemed to illustrate the chaos that had been introduced into the Castle of late, the continual disquiet of too many people in a world that had once seemed empty.

_Champions and heroes_, he thought, finding himself turning back to the puzzle Lexaeus had presented. Champions embodied the pinnacle of whatever cause they spearheaded, while heroes had - presumably - a moral compass pointed firmly in one direction. Vexen had only a limited awareness of either. Tales of old legends had never concerned him before, and they all seemed to end the same way: with villains thwarted, damsels rescued from the doldrums of captivity, and heroes triumphing just when the day seemed bleakest. Nothing like the stark beauty of a scientific formula in action, of physics performing its endless, unfolding dance.

Then again, regardless of whomever the champions actually helped serve, they would be assigned moral values either way. Another failing of old stories; science didn't have to be granted arbitrary degrees of good or bad. More to the point, Vexen did not understand why Marluxia chose to hint such a thing to Lexaeus, and particularly in such a manner.

Was it conspiracy? If so, Zexion's conclusion was apt enough. There was more than enough work to go around without having to cause pointless trouble in the Organization, particularly when there would be nothing gained from rebellion.

His tentative conclusions were interrupted at the third-floor garden. A watering can had been left near the entrance to the inner courtyard, which was sufficient warning for Vexen to pause, frowning at it. It was half-empty; a drop of water sat insolently on the handle, reflecting back miniature slices of the world around it. He knelt beside it, reaching out but unwilling to touch the droplet directly, to bridge the gap between the water's skin and himself.

In the reflected distance, he caught sight of a splotch of color among the shallow bushes.

Dressed in a loose, orange poncho, Aerlen had taken up a perch on the edge of one of the fountains. The fountain was familiar, and it took a moment for Vexen to accept why: it had a pattern drawn in thick ridges around the basin's rim, following a design that Vexen remembered all too well from long hours studying in the Bastion. He'd fought to master a mathematics assignment there once, and had failed; he'd succeeded at studying for a temperature calibration test, and had later enjoyed a celebratory pie he'd begged out of the Castle's kitchens.

The true fountain now lay encompassed in Shadow, lost among the rest of Radiant Garden. But here, it had been reproduced in exacting detail, even down to the same broken crevice running along the side of the basin. Someone had spent a lot of effort trying to recreate the past. Someone had wanted to preserve it.

Its presence was, Vexen decided, obscene.

He paced around the courtyard warily in a long circle before finally deciding to cross its threshold, stepping between the safety of the sterile halls and into the wilderness. It would be safer to travel straight through the garden, rather than open a portal and send a ripple through the Darkness that might possibly set his quarry on guard.

Aerlen's voice trickled back to him as he walked.

"Do you think you'll remember me, once I'm gone?"

A man's rich laughter answered her. "I would."

"Promise?"

Vexen turned the corner around a set of hedges; the fountain squatted before him, twice as repulsive in proximity, laden with memories. Off the side of the path, Marluxia was digging methodically in a small plot of land. The expanse of overturned dirt ran like a quiescent worm in parallel to the stone walkway; the length was several feet at a glance, which meant that Marluxia had likely been at the task for hours. At first, Vexen wondered at the man's concentration. Then Marluxia planted the trowel in the dirt and turned, waggling his fingers Vexen's way.

"Good afternoon, Vexen." Marluxia did not sound surprised as he let his gaze fix upon the researcher, unflinching. "Did you come looking for me?"

The question was amused. The curl in Marluxia's voice lifted the syllables and let them drip with implication.

Rejecting the opportunity to say yes, even at the cost of what eavesdropping he might have gleaned, Vexen straightened his shoulders. "Measurements of Aerlen," he stated instead. "I require them for the next phase of the Dusk prototyping."

Judging from Marluxia's smile, the excuse didn't hold water; the other man chose not to speak up to contradict Vexen's claim, but he did continue to stare at Vexen with an insolent tilt to his lips. Keeping back a curse, Vexen strode forward and yanked Aerlen roughly off the fountain. She stumbled along behind him as he turned and strode out of the garden, making small noises of protest in her throat that came out like stifled mice.

"I like Marluxia better," she blurted out once they had crossed into the cooler protection of the central halls. "At least he doesn't lie to himself."

Despite himself, Vexen opened his mouth. "You're being a waste of space again," he warned her, pulling at her arm until she cursed, and had to fight to keep her balance.

"I hate you," she claimed when she next managed to pull herself upright, her jaw tight. She was still smiling, but her eyes were bright, and her expression seemed more like a grimace. "I'll see you on your knees someday, Vexie. Just you watch."

"Enough with the nicknames," he drawled, affecting the pretense of boredom. "Your quaint attempts at humor only encourage me to destroy you."

She sniffed, and then successfully plucked her arm away from his grip. He didn't try to grab her back. "What are the tests you needed, anyway?"

"I forgot," he lied, and turned away, listening to her voice calling behind him, beginning with annoyance, then descending into insults, and then simply his name, over and over again.

* * *

At first, Vexen thought that would be the end of it. Then, as he was browsing the central library in search of a manual on skeletal structures, Marluxia came to him.

He arrived barely a week after Vexen's thwarted attempt to gain information in the gardens; the weather had continued to warm, mimicking seasonal changes that no longer had a sun to guide them. The afternoon was full and lazy with hours that held to no schedule but their own, spending themselves out in luxury with no obligations to fulfill. No shudder of Darkness warned Vexen of his guest; Marluxia arrived on foot, falling into step beside Vexen as he passed between the thick, wooden shelves.

Stopping immediately, Vexen turned towards the nearest row and pretended to be interested in its contents.

The ruse had no effect. Marluxia stepped into the narrow aisle, still smiling, and folded his arms. "So, Axel tells me that none of you have hearts."

"None of _us_," Vexen corrected. He reached past Marluxia pointedly, resting his fingers on the spine of _Rites of Spring_. "Including, I believe, you."

Marluxia slid closer, turning so that he leaned against the next row that Vexen's hand would have advanced to. "But not the human girl you keep as a pet. I've had the opportunity to speak a bit more with her. She had some rather... interesting observations."

"She has observations on _everything_," Vexen scoffed, but asked anyway. "What did she try to convince you of this time?"

Marluxia's mouth eased into a deeper smile, one that curved his eyes in an imitation of warmth. It was an intensely private expression, as if he and Vexen were meeting alone in the library for a conspiracy of like-minded souls - save that the truth was anything but. "We spoke about the nature of the hearts that you and I have lost. In fact, she and I have had long discussions about them. Are you sure you're not confusing a heart as the center of feelings, rather than simple empathy? Just because a creature loses one doesn't mean they lack the other." When Vexen opened his mouth to protest the impossible logic, Marluxia kept talking, filling in the space. "Or do you continue to assume that you know everything about being a Nobody?"

"We _do_ have more experience. Years," Vexen added sharply, "of research on precisely that subject."

Marluxia inclined his head in the mockery of a polite nod. His words were smooth; their meaning was not. "But you still don't understand it fully. Could it be that you're wrong?"

Vexen stared. The other newcomers had been bad enough in asserting themselves in their own disrespectful ways - but something about Marluxia's challenge, carelessly presented, refused to be so easily dismissed. "Xigbar's right," he announced. "I don't like you either."

"Yet the Superior seems fond of my ideas," Marluxia parried, no hesitation visible as he unfolded his arms, bracing his hands on the shelves on either side of the aisle. The motion blocked any easy exit. "Could it be that I might have inspiration which you have begun to lack?"

"I don't appreciate your insinuations." Turning away, Vexen caught himself, spinning back to level a finger at Marluxia's chin. "_Also_, I think that you've been spending far too much time with Xemnas. He can't possibly be _that_ entertaining - and I speak from long experience."

"Are you implying that I would do anything to harm our dear Superior?"

Refusing to yield ground and allow Marluxia to resume his attack, Vexen lifted his chin. It was ridiculous that he would have to defend himself against a junior Nobody, but nothing about the conversation was behaving as it should. "I'm _saying_ that I find it odd how a man who was bested by Xemnas's Heartless would be so enthusiastic about helping his Nobody," he insisted. "Why shouldn't I find that strange?"

Marluxa's shoulders relaxed as he retreated a step, the hem of his jacket brushing over the carpet - but his next words held nothing of surrender. "Which demonstrates everything, doesn't it? Unlike _you_, I can distinguish between someone's heart and their mind. I only had to be told _once_ that one's Heartless is not necessarily like their Other, that the _associations _of one might not carry over. How many times did it take for you?"

Vexen ignored the thicket of implications. "I know perfectly well that the two are different," he retorted harshly. "You don't need to remind _me _of the basics."

"And do you believe it?"

"_Yes._"

"Then why," Marluxia countered neatly, "do you feel that you have any more clout with Xemnas than I?"

Vexen froze in place.

Marluxia leaned in, smelling of dirt and sweetness, a stray vine clinging by its sap to the ends of his hair. "Vengeance is so tawdry," he whispered, the heat of his breath tickling Vexen's skin. "Do I still look like I have a heart to _you_?"

* * *

The last person that Vexen sought out was the one he wanted to see the least.

He did not choose subtlety this time, opening a portal directly from the laboratories. That alone took no effort. It was when he tried to affix the end of the portal to its destination that the problems began. The Darkness fought him when he directed it to Xemnas's office. This was not the first time that the power had struggled against his will; playing with the Darkness was always tricky, for Heartless were notorious for going wild, and their companion element was no different. Other difficulties occurred when two different people tried to work with the same material. Inevitably, results came down to a test of willpower, but he could think of no reason that Xemnas might have to force others away. If it was privacy that the man desired, then he had already proven his ability to lose himself in the streets of the city.

The force shifted the longer he tried to bend it to his will, slipping like hot mud through his fingers. Giving up, Vexen made do with the nearest stairwell. Even that was a struggle. The walkway between worlds churned beneath his feet, threatening to dump him out halfway along the path; it was all he could do to tie the end off safely and land outside Xemnas's quarters.

He hesitated, then knocked.

"Come in," Xemnas called, and Vexen had no excuse to refuse.

He pushed open the doors, uncertain about what he would find. Instead of bloodshed and experiments, however, only paperwork greeted his eyes. Xemnas was standing on the side of his desk closest to the chamber's exit, sorting test subject folders into three stacks. The leftmost pile was the tallest; Vexen didn't have to count in order to guess that it represented the losses, candidates who had failed out.

"Vexen? I heard you had something on your mind." Glancing up from his work, Xemnas beckoned him forward with distracted waves of his hand. "Indeed, it's been hard to hear of anything else lately. Just how much trouble do you plan to stir up?"

Caught midway across the carpet, Vexen came to a halt. His toes nudged the edge of an embroidery line. "What do you mean?"

"Marluxia told me that you've been trying to interrupt his work in the gardens." Rather than condemnation, Xemnas sounded amused. When Vexen opened his mouth, stung, Xemnas held up his hand to interrupt him. "I won't have you both arguing. Even if you two can't tolerate one another, Marluxia has a talent that we _need_ if we want to succeed with our plans."

"And what am _I_, then?" Vexen shot back. "What don't _I_ provide? Haven't I helped pursue your little games with the Dusks for long enough? Haven't _I_ been dragged along enough by your precious research that destroyed us? You _owe_ me some respect, Xemnas."

Xemnas stared at him.

Suddenly the carpet began to ripple, bulging as the arched, white bodies of Dusks began to rise, sifting through the threads like millet through a sieve. If there had been a command to summon them, then Vexen had not sensed it - and, try as he might, he could not tell if Xemnas was continuing to instruct them, or if they were reacting purely on instinct to a potential threat.

In the middle of the room, Xemnas only watched, his hands immobile by his sides as the ranks of Dusks flowed together and split apart again. They left a single corridor between Xemnas and Vexen: a single line surrounded by white streaks.

As the Dusks snapped to watchful attention, Xemnas leaned back against the desk. His eyes scanned the length of Vexen's body, from head to toe. "You hold the rank of Number Four in the Organization," he declared. "You are Vexen, and that should be enough. Don't interfere with my goals. You should be far beyond jealousy by now. And if not," he added, the same curious smile touching his face that Vexen had seen at the meeting chamber, "perhaps we should be studying _you_ instead."

"Now you're acting _ridiculous_, Xemnas," Vexen began to snap, but the poison of Marluxia's words came back to him in a cold rush, colder than any winter he had ever felt before, taunting with impossible mockery. One's Heartless was _not_ like their Other. The associations from one might not carry over.

_Why do you feel you have any more clout with Xemnas than I?_

Silence spread across the office. One by one, the Dusks froze their usual swaying, legs and arms going rigid into points. Their zippered faces turned towards him in rows of uniform, jagged lines.

Vexen tried not to recoil. Loyalty should have preserved him from any attack. Loyalty - old memories of his and Xemnas's shared past together in the City, if not from the Bastion when they both were young. Loyalty should have been enough, and yet it, too, was merely an emotion, an association for a heart and a heart alone. Old friendships could matter just as little.

Other reasons instantly came to mind, an entire list of worth in his defense: his scientific knowledge, his successful research, his long history of going along with Xemnas's plans. Yet even as he thought of them, Vexen could not forget Marluxia's logic. It left a sour taste in his mouth as he realized that - for all his attempts over two lifespans - he still had never been able to keep up with wherever it was that Xemnas had gone.

Xehanort. Xemnas. It didn't matter who the man had been at the time; it never had, and though Vexen had known that distance was inevitable, he had never thought it would become so great as to make his own significance replaceable.

He whirled away before he could put a word to the emotion he should not have had, the memories that could not have control. The miasma of power in Xemnas's office was so strong that he did not risk trying to bend any of it to obedience; Vexen made for the doors instead, half-expecting to be stopped before he could escape. Even as his hand struck the carved wood, he wondered if Xemnas would lift his voice to stop him - but there was nothing to keep him from leaving, and nothing that called him back.

Once outside, he fumbled with the Darkness so badly that the portal dissipated as soon as he exited, curling away in puffs of black mist. It threw him out in a cramped corner between two shelves, pressed against a window that overlooked a courtyard stuffed full of discarded pipes. At first, Vexen was disoriented; he couldn't remember where the original shape of the warehouse might have been and where he'd ended up. Then he recognized the sweeping staircases of the central library behind him, and pushed his way through towards them.

He caught sight of Zexion as he stalked by, the younger man ensconced among stacks of books. The noise of his boots drew Zexion out of his studies; he glanced up and then froze at Vexen's expression.

"What happened?" he asked, half-rising from his chair. "Did you and Xemnas start quarreling again?"

"Enough of this," Vexen hissed, and sliced a second portal through the air, reckless enough to not care if the Darkness obeyed him or not.

He landed this time in his laboratories. The rooms were dimmed; the lights had been turned down in his absence, though they began to slowly bloom to life as the Castle responded to his presence. None of the boiler plates were running. Everything was silent.

Vexen flicked a few switches, watching the chemicals resume the process of bubbling. None of the Dusk creation specifications seemed appealing after his conversation with Xemnas. It was impossible to focus on any of the projects that had been spread out across his worktables. All of them seemed equally important - and equally pointless.

Finally, Vexen threw himself into his chair, grabbing a journal at random from the stack that had been waiting weeks for him to review.

It only took a few pages before he realized that the Dusks had not bothered to sort the useful scientific data from the rest. The volume he held was a personal account. Most of the older journals had been sacrificed to endless notations, records kept of raw data only barely organized by the labels on their spines. Only a few had been retained for his own private thoughts.

He flipped pages, stopping at one at random. His fingers traced down the words.

_Dilan has suggested using numbers. I don't think anyone else paid attention to such a foolish notion, but Dilan looked like he wanted to argue in favor... _

"Which is why we're using them _anyway_," Vexen snarled, nerves still raw by the lingering insult of Xemnas's dismissal. Despite the frivolousness of adding numbers to names, Xemnas had accepted the idea once Demyx had made it. Yet by then, even Xaldin refused the suggestion. Xaldin - who had thought it up when he still called himself Dilan.

Vexen's fingers stilled.

Xaldin _had_ refused the suggestion. _Ridiculous_, the lancer had called it during the meeting - a dramatic change from the way he'd presented the idea originally. And yet Xaldin had always been the most unflappable in his convictions, whose pragmatism was second to Lexaeus despite having a knack for the invisible, mutable element of air. To turn around completely on a stance like that was unexpected.

The way Xemnas had withdrawn from them all had been obvious; Vexen had obsessed on it for years. He'd been unable to succeed in keeping the man from drifting further away. But something as small as Xaldin's - as _Dilan's_ - adaptation to the City had never crossed Vexen's mind as equally significant. It had been enough that the lancer had taken a new name - that they had _all_ gone along with the variety of pretenses that seemed to serve no greater purpose than to help them all pretend they truly were different people. They'd all tried anyway, attempting to pick between the past and then the present, seeing Xemnas's erraticism but not each other's.

What else had changed over the years?

Curiosity piqued, Vexen turned to another page. This one talked about the game of Hotch Potch Pie they'd used to decide the order of questioning Aerlen when she had first appeared to them as a scraggly, terrified waif. The next section he flipped to had notes about how Elaeus claimed that a person only saw the past when they looked at him, rather than the present reality. Elaeus, with a heart. Lexaeus, without.

Vexen rifled further. It was a parade of memories: the Pit of Lost Socks on his bedroom door, Lexaeus speaking about how they would have to create _new_ things in the City if they wanted to survive in the long run, Xemnas's first suggestions about reclaiming their hearts and forcing them to serve. The realizations that the City was decaying - that the City needed a heart, as they would all need hearts to keep from fading away, crumbling like the snow-painted streets. The magic of seeing again in the gloom of the lightless roads, once Vexen had been forced to embrace Darkness a second time.

He read about Xehanort's aversion to the Dusks, Xehanort's refusal to interact with them, and then the death of one over breakfast; he read about how he had once treated Dilan as slow-witted, before he'd come to appreciate the man's nature. Zexion's first stash of munny, the sign of _Abandon Bookmarks_ on the library door, Xigbar's oh-yoh toy, and the peculiar conversation they had all shared upon arriving in Twilight. The use of test subjects. The apartment in Twilight, where Vexen had retreated to work, and had been drawn into Zexion and Lexaeus's search for the Bastion.

Vexen's fingers moved faster, turning chunks of history aside. He found section after section that recorded Aerlen's claims that all the scientists still had feelings, but just didn't remember what they were. _Gentleness is a habit as weak as kindness_, he read, tracing over the indentations of his own writing. _Wishful thinking, projection. Loneliness_.

He flipped backwards, reversing time, watching himself become younger and younger. The words grew steadily more naïve, returning to the sense of grudging wonder he had held when the city was still new, and they had all entertained dreams of the future.

At last, he reached the very first page.

_Despite all our setbacks, I believe that we can overcome our loss. Xehanort is still here. Ienzo, Elaeus, Dilan and Braig are all with me. Against all of our skills united, there's nothing that can hold us back for long. I welcome anything foolish enough to try. _

The end of the entry was signed simply, _Even_.

For a time, Vexen sat there, staring at the four letters on the page that had once been his name.

Then he pushed the book away, letting the cover fall shut.

In the silence of his laboratories, Vexen picked up a clipboard, and resumed his work.


	17. Epilogue

Winter found the Castle in full occupation, with all eleven members of the Organization in residence. Despite the temptation to abandon the City and wait out the months on some tropical world in luxury, most of the Nobodies stayed close to home, tied down by work. Pinned up together, restlessness soon made itself known. Attempts at entertainment soon cluttered the halls. Music trickled out of spare rooms that Demyx had left idle, neglected instruments whispering endlessly to the air. Zexion's chess set gained and lost pieces at an incomprehensible rate. Dragoons and Snipers fought for space in the practice yards, teaming up to bully the Berserkers that lumbered past. Charts and maps spread out across the tables of the central library, spelling out three fronts in the ongoing campaign: Light, Darkness, and the Organization. The Light had been winning for several weeks, but not by much.

In the frosty mornings, breakfasts ran long. As snow slowly coated the City, all of the Organization members took to spending more time around the dining table, loathe to wander too much in the unpleasant conditions. The halls of the Castle were drafty. Most of them bundled up. Even Vexen, who had finally been lured back to the mealtable by Zexion, found the degree of chill unreasonable. Though he could ignore external temperatures through careful application of magic, having to endure them for too long created a slow drain of energy and wasted concentration that could have gone to more valuable affairs.

By contrast, the rooms most used for social affairs seemed all the more welcoming, with fires burning in all the hearths and the odor of soups drifting in lazy, savory clouds. Luxord's Gamblers had successfully staked out a professional restaurant on a world where the stewpot had been raised to a cultural art form. Vexen didn't care why the world treasured its sailors and avoided the artificial storms; what mattered was that he was able to benefit from their generations of perfectionist chefs. There appeared to be endless kitchens that could be stolen from. The Dusks brought back cauldron after cauldron of broths so rich that Vexen swore he could taste the salt simply by standing in the hallways, and taking a deep breath.

One morning in the middle of winter, the Dusks hauled out a meat and vegetable stock, coupled with a few heels of thick wheat bread. Grease shimmered on the surface of Vexen's soup, clinging to the curve of his spoon. The combination would be good for the day: filling for the appetite, yet providing enough energy to remain productive through long hours of work. Though escape to a summer beach would be as simple as opening a gateway, Vexen could not similarly teleport all his laboratory supplies with a snap of his fingers. Even if he could, the delicacy of several of the experiments resisted easy transportation. Like the rest of the Organization, he was trapped indoors to wait out the season.

He swallowed another spoonful of breakfast, and dabbled at the tiny chunks of carrot floating in his bowl.

The conversation around the dining table was saturated with rumors. After Marluxia had finished settling in - his presence changing from novelty into yet another fixture of the City - Xemnas had directed more of the Organization's effort towards fueling their army of Dusks. The only reliable method remained cooperation with the Darkness, and that gave poor odds. For every ten cities fed to the Shadows, barely enough Dusks to fill one village were created; for every hundred nations, the Organization was lucky to gather two. The different populations were becoming dangerously lopsided. But even though the Darkness benefited equally whenever an entity was consumed, there was no other way to generate a Dusk. Vexen's best efforts only reshaped the wriggling creatures, but could not birth one from scratch.

The failure was temporary, or so he kept reminding himself. In the meantime, the current model sufficed. Most of the Heartless seemed willing enough to obey the commands of the Organization - so long as there was not a stronger Heartless around. Fleshing out the rest of their forces were the cast-off Nobody shells, which were useful regardless of whether they became common Dusks or joined the specialized ranks.

Slowly, the City was filling up. White clashed and intermingled with black. The symbol of the Nobodies danced among the Emblems, until the Castle buzzed with monochrome. Even Demyx had Dusks that chose to follow him, wrapping their bodies in heavy caps and billowing pants, prancing along to unheard music behind their master.

It was a crude means of increasing their numbers. Ultimately, it would be a losing race. Zexion had warned them all about the danger during one of their last meetings, patiently droning on about the disproportionate growth of Shadow to Dusk - finishing with a deft reminder that converting all the worlds to Nobodies was a means to an end, not the final goal. Darkness claiming ascendancy over all the known worlds would only exchange one dominance for another. The Organization had to succeed in charting its third path.

Just as Vexen was sinking into deep contemplation about the possibility of throwing Dusks blindly towards any nearby worlds in hope of a chain explosion, Xemnas cleared his throat.

The noise was almost entirely lost in the din of ongoing conversations. Vexen only caught it by virtue of being two seats away. Zexion, whose perceptions were even sharper than his, broke off mid-sentence with Lexaeus and abandoned his pursuit of the sugar bowl.

When no one else paused to give Xemnas their attention, the man set down his spoon with a precise click, turning it so that the handle lay at an angle from his cup. The metal scraped across glazed ceramic with a rasp. He coughed, louder this time.

"Xigbar," he began, cutting through the awkward hush that finally managed to descend. "How long has Aerlen been staying with us?"

Startled mute by the nature of the question - Xemnas barely acknowledged the girl in the Castle anymore, let alone made her the subject of mealtime conversation - Xigbar threw a quick glance across the table. In her chair, Aerlen was caught frozen. She stared fixedly at her breakfast, skin pale. The silverware in her fingers slid gently out from between her knuckles and slipped into the beef broth.

"Years. At _least_ that long," Xigbar added bluntly, the words coming out like awkward quarrels fired wildly in hopes of hitting the right target. "It's _got_ to have been over a couple. Five? Six? Maybe more?"

Xemnas seemed to absorb the answer placidly, with no outward reaction. His hand covered his spoon again, gentle as a caress. Then he shrugged, and picked it back up. "I'd consider that a reasonably sufficient period of time. Unfortunately, we can't afford to entertain this hobby any longer if it hasn't produced anything useful. After breakfast, we'll terminate you," the man continued, never losing the reasonable, almost affectionate edge to his voice as he nodded towards Aerlen. "Don't worry - there's plenty of time to finish your meal. Have a second helping."

In the silence, Vexen watched Aerlen's throat work around a swallow.

Xigbar recovered first. "We're really getting rid of her?" When Xemnas nodded, the gunner sighed, leaning back against his chair with his shoulders squared. His gaze roved across the triangle of his breakfast, moving from bowl to napkin to coffee cup. Finally he took in a breath to speak.

"Guess that's that, then. Bye," he offered Aerlen, holding up a hand briefly in her direction. Then he bent his attention fully towards his own meal, working his spoon around a particularly large chunk of potato without giving the girl a second glance.

In all this time, Aerlen's composure had held, but Xigbar's flip dismissal snapped something inside her. Eyes wide with disbelief, the girl flushed from white to hot. "You _can't_ - " she protested, and the sound was too strangled to be a wail, too sharp to be a plea. But it sliced through the room as effectively as both, drawing the notice of everyone who had been pretending to look away. "You _can't_ just throw me away like this. I won't _allow_ it!"

Her chair clattered as she stood, upending it. The legs sprawled in the air like the brittle corpse of an insect. The soup bowl went next as Aerlen slammed her hand against the table and clipped the rim. Broth spattered. Her spoon pinwheeled to the carpet. Carrot chunks flecked the sleeve of Marluxia's coat.

Xemnas did not flinch as Aerlen swung her glare towards his end of the table - but whatever the girl saw in his eyes stilled her rage and panic instantly. She lapsed into panting, open-mouthed, spots of color streaking her cheeks as if she'd been struck.

Curious, Vexen twisted his head in Xemnas's direction, but the man had already picked up his coffee cup to take a drink, and his expression was obscured behind a curve of porcelain.

Xaldin was next to say his farewells. He regarded Aerlen for several long moments before gathering himself to his feet, rounding the table with measured, unhurried steps. She drew herself closer to the flimsy support of the table as she saw him approach, shoulders hunching into a defensive huddle that would do nothing to save her from a focused attack.

When he was near enough, Xaldin reached out and touched Aerlen's shoulder, tracing a gloved finger along a fold in her coat.

"Keep the jacket," was all he said, and turned away.

Zexion did not go through any similar overtures. He remained seated in his chair, calmly sipping from his cup of tea. When Aerlen looked at him, angry red blotches smeared across her cheeks, Zexion did not look back.

Remembering the kiss that he had caught the two of them in - and the ill-fated attempt at bartering that Aerlen had tried to make for her life - Vexen found himself watching the other man closely, wondering if some master plan would spring to life. But Zexion merely continued with his breakfast, orienting his pieces of toast side by side so that he could butter them, and in the end Aerlen gave up with a sharp curse underneath her breath.

Lexaeus took his time before reacting. Without waiting to be addressed, the man got up from his chair and circled the table until he was facing Aerlen, with nothing between them but the length of the carpet. He approached her carefully, not seeking to avoid her gaze, but not holding it either. She watched him in silence. Her hands clenched tightly enough that they shivered.

When he finally reached her, Lexaeus knelt down, as he had in the past when she was just a child and still following him around in the gardens. He was tall enough on one knee to almost look her in the eye even after how much she'd grown, shooting up in height with the eager legginess of a teenager.

For a moment, he seemed to hesitate, brushing her hair back with the same restrained gentleness that he would use to straighten the errant branches of a tree, or to touch a glasswork too fragile to set his hand upon fully.

"Goodbye, Aerlen," he told her seriously. "It will be better this way."

"Lexaeus," she breathed, almost a whimper, her throat tight enough to make the consonants squeak.

But Lexaeus stood and backed away, a hardness in his mouth that Vexen - despite his years of knowing the other man - found hard to decipher. His lips were tight, bloodless at the edges from where they were pressed together. There was no wavering in his composure. Taking one step and then another, Lexaeus widened the distance between himself and Aerlen until not even the girl's outstretched hand could bridge the gap.

One by one, all the rest of the Organization offered truncated goodbyes, indifferent words coming quickly between the silences as everyone kept to their own thoughts. Aerlen stood there helplessly, her accusatory gaze skipping between their faces. Briefly, she glared at Vexen, but he let his attention slide away from her, focusing instead on a point on the wall just past her shoulder.

Axel attempted a brief jolt of humor, joking something half-formed about rites of age and virginity, but it fell flat quickly and he didn't bother to finish. Demyx looked torn between how he wanted to react, smiling at first, and then going sober in a flash, mixing words and tone asymmetrically. Luxord simply wished her luck.

Of them all, Aerlen looked last to Marluxia. Her mouth opened, as if to plead one final time, but shut before she could make the attempt.

Marluxia held her gaze without giving anything back.

Then, he slowly shook his head.

Aerlen made a sharp, unhappy hiss between her teeth. Her face seemed to collapse into a geometry of sharp lines, closing up into a hatred that she didn't bother to hide. It was the only emotion left showing on her; whatever fear she had harbored had been suppressed by resentment, all hope discarded in favor of aggression. It was an animal's resignation, Vexen thought: an animal's desperate anger against odds so impossible that it had no other choice but to fight against them, even as it smelled its own death on the air.

"If you're all finished," Xemnas's voice interrupted, overriding the quiet scraping as Marluxia patiently ate spoonful after spoonful of broth, "someone needs to take her out and dispose of the matter. If no one's willing to volunteer - "

"I'll do it."

Heads turned like startled cats.

Faced with the gazes of the rest of the Organization upon him, Vexen made a dismissive jerk of his chin. "I've already eaten my fill, and I need more insight with my work," he explained haughtily. "Observing the Shadows feed today would be a useful detour. I could benefit from watching them devour her."

Xemnas's brow furrowed. Vexen refused to weaken before the other man's curiosity. In truth, he couldn't have explained the impulse. He'd volunteered arbitrarily, before Marluxia could plan anything - or so he told himself as he stared back evenly at Xemnas, easily finding a number of suspicions coming to hand. It wasn't guilt; none of them could feel such an emotion.

It wasn't guilt. He simply wanted to prevent any conspiracy.

Eventually, Xemnas relented. "Very well," he shrugged. "Enjoy. Luxord, if you and Xigbar could meet with me after dinner to go over the supply inventory?"

Pushing away his breakfast dishes, Vexen took advantage of the opportunity to escape before anyone else could question him. He nodded once sharply to Aerlen; she jerked away from the table and her toppled chair, moving with less grace than one of his Glorp prototypes. An escort of Dusks fell in beside them as Vexen made his way out of the dining hall, unwilling to open a portal in the middle of the group and risk someone else's covert influence over the destination.

Despite the opportunity, Aerlen did not bolt in an attempt for freedom. Even if she had, Vexen knew the Shadows would have found her in the City; still, the lack of token rebellion was atypical for her. As a child, she'd run once into the streets, desperately hoping for a way back home. Now she walked obediently alongside him. He lengthened his stride, but Aerlen kept up gamely without lagging behind, quickening her steps so that she could keep pace.

Refusing to be threatened by her silence, he spoke up. "You knew all along that we were going to feed you to the Darkness."

She kept her face turned resolutely forward. "Yes."

"Aren't you afraid?"

Aerlen barked a dry laugh. "_Afraid?_" The mockery lingered unpleasantly in Vexen's ears. "How _can_ I be? You people would have no mercy either way. If I've learned anything from having a second chance at life, it's that feelings are useless - useless except for the pain you can inflict on anyone unfortunate enough to still have them. I reject my own heart. Maybe those creatures out there will find it tasteless." She tossed her head, the two long bangs hanging free without any hairpins to keep them in place. "I don't think I'll mind losing my heart. That way, I won't need anything ever again."

They rounded a corner in the hallways, the twinned pulse of their heels beating against the thick carpet. Outside, snow was continuing to fall, salting the windows with stray flecks that clung to the glass before being swept away by the stuttering winds. Winter was softening the glare of the streetlights, hazing them out in rainbowed auroras that filtered across the streets. Rather than continue to circle the Castle with no clear destination in mind, Vexen came to a stop and peered outside. It was cold enough that when he set his fingers on the glass of the nearest window, tiny halos of condensation crept around them, blurring together in a single streak.

"You used to try and convince us so often that we had feelings," he began, and halted there, uncertain how to continue.

She stirred beside him. "Do you _have_ to talk about that now?"

"I was wondering if you'd finally realized your mistake."

Aerlen snorted. When Vexen stole a glance in her direction, her profile was tinted with light from the streets: blue, green, crimson lingering over the slug-like lines of drying tears on her face. He'd looked at her too late to catch her in the act of crying. "I'm not wrong. I may not be right, but I'm not _wrong_ either." She held her chin up bravely for a second, and then her face contorted. "I know that sounds stupid. I don't know _what_ to say. You don't care about others, but you still _react_ with emotions. Just... other people can't make you have them. Other people can't make you change."

As she trailed off, her fingers wound the ties of her jacket around her knuckles, around and around until her hands were clenched around the metal counterweights on the ends. Vexen watched the visible skin between the ties turn white, bloodflow cut off by the pressure.

"Come on," he said at last. "The Shadows are waiting."

The nearest balcony was at the end of the hall. The door was metal, marked with a red exit sign: a rare throwback from the Castle's old warehouse days. Vexen only allowed himself to hesitate for a moment before he pushed it open, feeling the crisp winter air rush in to invade the halls.

Outside, the buildings of the City were drawn in jagged silhouette along the horizon line. Vexen reoriented himself against one of the buildings in the distance, opening a portal to bridge the distance between his rooftop and the other. The effort, minor as it was, tired him. A slow ache began to hum in his bones, just enough to make him wonder if a flu had snuck in on the heels of someone's offworld visit. It was a bitter thought. The Organization could ruin civilizations, could walk between worlds with a thought or twist the substance of Darkness itself for their needs, but the simplest infection could still take them low.

The beginnings of a headache beat against his temples. Vexen's breath puffed thunderheads into the night. Aerlen had started to shiver, tiny spasms of her muscles betraying her despite her best self-control. He spent the effort to suppress his own sense of temperature. When the chill subsided into a distant awareness, he steeled the remainder of his concentration and opened the second portal.

He took them both through quickly, exchanging one rooftop for another. Dusks trailed behind them in a strange parade. Some of them chose to tag along through the portals, while others sailed in the distance, flocking together like white birds whose wings had been plucked. Attracted by the activity - and by the fresh heart that Aerlen possessed - Heartless began to congregate as well. Thick gouts of ink peeled away from the crevices of the City's streets, bubbling out like black porridge.

As they picked their way around the rooftop vents of the next building, Aerlen cocked her head. "If I become a Nobody, will I still see you? Will I be that strange, or will you still remember me as Aerlen?"

Vexen scowled. "I will remember you as nothing. The person I'm speaking to now is your heart, remember? When it's gone, what's left behind will be different. I hope your Dusk will be more obedient."

There was a scraping of snow to his right. Aerlen had stopped in place and had turned her face towards the sky, lifting her hands to the speckled blackness as she once had towards thunder and rain. "She won't. _I_ plan to survive," the girl insisted, "even if it's just through my body."

The ladder to the fire escape had been yanked off its rails and thrown onto the rooftop. Vexen frowned at it as he trod across the rungs. "You would have to become a viable Nobody first, and I believe Luxord's odds were ten to one against it, the last time I checked," he retorted. "No. Your time is over, Aerlen. It's enough."

For a moment, Aerlen held her poise; then she dropped her hands. "You're right. I'm done being afraid. This _is_ enough. If I remember anything at all, I swear I'll remember how useless my heart was. My Nobody will find you all again, and you'll wish it hadn't."

"Because we'll have to put up with you a second time?"

She bared her teeth in a grin. "Maybe."

They crossed one rooftop and then another as Vexen opened and closed portals, seeking a building that would be tall enough for his purposes without being encircled too tightly by urban clutter. Despite Aerlen's claim to have accepted the situation, he would be foolish to trust her. The last thing he needed was to allow the girl any opportunity to escape; he did not relish the thought of having to waste time in hunting her down to make certain the Shadows had claimed their prey in the City's twisting streets.

One of the taller apartment buildings gave him a clear view of the roadways. Vexen paused there to check over the side, bracing his foot on the thin slabs of concrete that lined the edge. In terms of safety for any former residents, the railing could barely be called a token effort. The concrete only came up to the tops of his boots. Anyone approaching it was more likely to trip than to catch themselves safely.

It would suffice.

Looking down, Vexen could see that the Heartless had kept on the trail. In the surging void below, a few pairs of yellow eyes glimmered back: pinpricks that peered curiously at the presences on the roof. Then the lights began to move, squirming around the base of the apartment building like fireflies beginning to swarm. A few Heartless were bold enough to start worming their way up the side, but the attendant Dusks swept in to form a boundary between them and Aerlen, constructing an unsteady perimeter around the rooftop as they fenced and stabbed at the Shadows that squirmed in flat ink puddles over the windows.

He felt a tugging on his arm, and glanced over.

Aerlen was there, using him for support as she balanced on the flat railing. Refusing to ignore her fate, the girl had laced her fingers in his jacket and was boldly perched on the edge. He adjusted his gaze down to examine her knuckles instead, relieved for any excuse not to look at her face directly.

She refused to grant him that option. Leaning in towards him, Aerlen tilted her head until she could invade his field of vision. Her mouth was thin and curved. "What would you do if I refused to jump?" she drawled teasingly.

He did not smile back. "Would I have to push you?"

Aerlen edged closer. Her feet shifted on the railing as she pressed up against him. Her whisper was hot in his ear. "I should have ordered the Dusks to call you the _Frigid_ Academic instead."

Then she stepped backwards.

Her weight yanked him forward in a sudden jerk, pulling his jacket taut around his shoulders. He stumbled; his boots hit the railing hard, ankles twisting as Aerlen's body dragged him over. His head snapped back, flashing stars and city lights in front of his eyes. Air streaked over his face. Disorientation spun gravity around him; Aerlen was a heavy burr clinging to his chest, knees tucked up against his waist, her hair tangling around his face as he tried to catch his breath.

The hems of their jackets fluttered together like two birds struck down while mating.

Frantic to regain control, Vexen fought to push Aerlen away. Working a hand between them both, he levered an elbow against her chest until she gasped and dropped away a few inches. Through the riot of her hair, he could see the ground approach. Below them hungered the Shadows, clustered together in perpetual silence as they waited for their meal.

She had forced the situation upon him after all. Tangled with her like this, Vexen could not simply look away and wait for her to die. And - to judge by how flippantly Xemnas had dismissed the girl - it was a certainty that Xemnas wouldn't care what happened to Aerlen now. She could disappear to another world and live in hiding for however long it would take until the Organization brought darkness to her once more. If anyone demanded proof, Vexen could simply point at any one of the generic Dusks roaming the City, and claim them to be her.

The choice was his and his alone now: to spare her life or to let it gutter out a second time.

His thoughts swam erratically. Falling from this high up would easily cause her death; either the Heartless would take her, or she would shatter her bones on impact and bleed away in agony. When he closed his eyes in an attempt to straighten his wits, he only found himself remembering how it felt like when his heart had been taken. Being swallowed alive by the Heartless on the floor of the Bastion's laboratories had been a terrifying experience. Armed with an arrogant faith in his own abilities, Vexen had discovered that all his scientific prowess had been useless. He had been seized and devoured like anyone else. Knowing what was happening had only made it worse - and Aerlen was far from ignorant.

When he opened his eyes again, the ground filled his sight.

Vexen made his decision.

His hands came up, finding Aerlen's shoulders, the joints bony even through the padding of her jacket. The shove he made had no martial subtlety to it; he did not care about anything except getting her away from him. The impulse made him rough. Already jostled by his earlier attempt to dislodge her, Aerlen struggled to keep her grip. Her fingers began to loosen, slipping on the leather.

With a final, vicious kick, Vexen ripped Aerlen free. As she tumbled away, spells went into action. Ice blossomed around Vexen, unfolding into intricate crystals that shattered underneath his weight. Residual moisture clumped and froze in long icicles around his body, weaving curls of frost together to catch and halt his descent. One after another, the network of crystals splintered under his boots until it gathered into a platform of of crushed ice and snow, congealed together in cradle that glittered like an aurora in the city lights.

Below him, Aerlen continued to plummet. Her arms remained outstretched towards him, fingers spread. Her mouth was open; her eyes were fixed upon him. But there was no expression on her rapidly-dwindling face, no scream of protest or cry for mercy. No fearful whimper escaped.

She fell.

The Heartless rose up in a hungry snap, and claimed her before she even hit the ground.

As the black wave collapsed upon itself with its prize, Vexen let himself descend until his feet touched one of the streetlamps. Ice crunched at the contact. The frost that kept him buoyant clustered along the metal and caused the light to haze. It illuminated the squirming mass of Shadows as they feasted, eager to claim the heart that they had been denied for so long.

Gradually, the frantic mass subsided. It divided into distinct creatures once more as the Heartless burrowed back into the alleyways and cul-de-sacs of the City. They left the street empty. The snow, disturbed into erratic eddies by the Shadows, was as white and clean as when it had first drifted from the sky.

With nothing left to keep him there, Vexen opened a portal, and left the darkness behind.

- _fin_


End file.
